


A Life for a Rose

by JojotheRadPenguin



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: 18th Century, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Creatures & Monsters, Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Alternate Universe - Historical, Animagus, Beauty and the Beast Elements, Drama, Drama & Romance, Eventual Romance, Fairy Tale Curses, Fairy Tale Elements, Fairy Tale Retellings, Fairy Tale Style, Falling In Love, Fantasy, Fluff, Historical Dress, Historical Fantasy, Historical Inaccuracy, Historical References, Human/Monster Romance, Magic, Monsters, Visions in dreams
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-13
Updated: 2020-08-16
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:26:55
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 16
Words: 27,306
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25236904
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JojotheRadPenguin/pseuds/JojotheRadPenguin
Summary: In 18th century France, when Hermoine's father returns from his travels with the tale of an enchanted palace of glass and roses, a dark, grotesque Beast, and the fatal price he must pay for stealing a single rose, she goes in his place as the Beast's prisoner of her own free will with the Beast's cryptic words haunting her thoughts: "A Life for a Rose".
Relationships: Hermione Granger/Severus Snape
Comments: 77
Kudos: 101





	1. Prologue - Le Conte de Fées

“Please, _Maman_! Can’t you tell us just one story?” The young boy whines and tugs on the ruffled, lacey sleeve of his mother’s evening gown as she pulls the brown quilt over his wriggling body.

  
Beside him, his sister obtains a sudden expression of excitement. “Yes, just one!”

  
With a soft smile, their mother shakes her head and presses a kiss to both of their heads of wild, golden-brown curls. “ _Non, mes enfants_ ,” She coos, “it’s getting late…” But the painted blue walls filled with miniature murals of doves and roses are still made an entrancing shade of orange by the setting sun.

  
“But _Maman_! Just one!” Both children cry in perfect unison. The boy’s grip on his mother’s sleeve is now like a vice and the girl throws herself across her lap in an attempt to immobilize her.

  
Their mother sighs, her smile not faltering, at her children. “Well, I suppose it isn’t too late for _one_ story…”

  
With that, the children’s faces brighten and they scramble over each other in order to make themselves comfortable enough for another one of their mother’s long stories.

  
The mother ensures the girl is hugging her toy lion close against her chest and the boy is snugly tucked underneath the quilt before gathering the dark rose-colored skirts of her dress so she, herself, can find comfort at the foot of the childrens’ bed.

  
“What story shall it be tonight? The tale of a girl in a red hood and a big bad wolf?” The mother curls her lip into a snarl and her fingers into claws, rousing a squeal out of the girl when she lunges toward her, only to attack her with kisses. “The story of a princess trapped in a castle of thorns roused from a hundred-year-sleep by the kiss of a handsome prince?” She now kisses her son’s light pink cheeks.

  
“Something new!” The boy laughs. “One with magic!”

  
“I want one with _toooons_ of romance and kissing!” The girl swoons, receiving a look of sheer disgust from her brother.

  
Before any arguments ensue, the mother calms them down with a, “I will think of one that contains both romance and magic, don’t you worry!”

  
The mother has a dramatic expression of thought as she turns her gaze to stare out the window and into the dark wood that surrounds their cottage. But this forced face suddenly loosens and settles into one far more sentimental, as if staring into the forest has morphed into staring across a sea of memories.

  
“I have one,” She finally says in a soft, hushed tone, “A story of true love, faeries, and a beast’s enchanted palace of glass and roses,” she chuckles upon the entranced glitter within her childrens’ bright, doe-ish eyes before she begins her story as she would start any other: “Once upon a time, in a land not too far from here, a girl and her father lived in a quaint cottage swallowed by a magical forest…”


	2. One - La Lettre

A deafening, buzzing shriek tears through the silence of the garden, startling me so violently that it sends dirt spraying over my head as I pull a carrot out of the ground with a little too much force.

The scream rings out again, sharply reverberating off the pine trees surrounding, isolating, and arching high over the cottage like a dark green roof.

Once the fear riddling my heart eases, it’s replaced by excitement once I realize what such a scream means. I haphazardly toss the carrot into a woven basket containing other freshly-pulled produce and scramble out of the vegetable garden and towards the roses growing up against the cottage.

“Did you get one, Crookshanks?” I ask upon the emergence of a bright orange tail from between the brambles decorated by white blooms.

As if to directly respond to my question, a squashed-faced, ginger-colored cat leaps from the brambles with something wriggling in his jaws. It’s a fairy desperately clutching a newborn rosebud against its bare chest. It’s hissing in a language consisting of incoherent chirps and bares its tiny mouth of serrated teeth at me.

A phantom pain pricks my thumb upon remembering the first time my hands fell victim to a fairy’s tiny fangs.

I smile and lightly clap my hands (another sound that echoes throughout the wood). “Well done, Crooks!”

Past a mouthful of wings and minuscule, sapphire-blue feathers lining the fairy’s back, Crookshanks purrs and flicks his tail at my praise.

For months fairies have been robbing my roses of their buds with such fervor that it’s led me to question what use fae-folk have for simple buds. Perhaps rosebuds are a sacred part of fairy courtship? A status symbol? Fashion? I’m not sure. But I am sure that it only takes Crookshanks ambushing them and nipping at their butterfly-like wings for them to leave my roses alone--for a little while at least.

The fairy continues to angrily babble and buzz in its dialect, having finally dropped the rosebud.

“I think you ought to return him to his home,” I nod towards the edge of the wood lying just beyond the hen house. “Perhaps then he can return to his kin and share tales of the terror known only as Crookshanks!”

Upset that he must release his, admittedly, impressive catch, Crooks growls as a response to my request, but he does eventually scamper across the yard and disappear into the dark shrubbery in a flash of orange.

I return to my basket of vegetables, decide that my one carrot and several potatoes would be enough to compliment the hunk of beef Papa promised to bring back from the market in a hearty stew, and hold the end of my stained skirt in a fist to trot up the cottage’s front steps.

I don’t even make it up to the rose-covered porch before the tell-tale slap of hooves on the road fills the wood.

I turn to see several white hens hop off the dirt path in order to make way for Papa atop our grey mare Gunpowder, and smile.

Papa’s aged face is bright with a similar expression and doesn’t even wait for Gunpowder to slow her canter before sliding off the saddle and run up the porch stairs as fast as his bowed legs will allow. In his hand, he waves around a slightly yellowed envelope.

I move to say hello to my father, but am abruptly pulled inside as he says, “You will not believe it, Hermoine! You will not believe it!”

“Believe what, Papa?” I ask and raise a disappointed brow when I notice how deflated his satchel is.

He dances us into our dining room, a small, low-ceiling area consisting of only a single table and two chairs, as well as a cupboard and stove nestled underneath the stairs leading to the loft housing our beds. 

Once more, he flourishes the envelope. It's crimson wax seal has chips away even further when he unsheaths a piece of parchment from the envelope’s confines.

“One of my ships has docked in Le Havre!”

For a moment, silence swells the room as I stare at him with wide eyes. “A ship?” I breathe. “Which one?”

“ _ La Sirѐne _ . Your mother’s favorite ship...” A look of sentimentality crosses his faces and softens the excitement blazing in his brown eyes. But almost as soon as the emotion dampened, it returns with an even more ferocious vigor when he jabs a finger at a line towards the bottom of the document. I don’t have time to read it before he declares, “It has all its cargo yet! Fine silks and spices from the Orient! Isn’t that fantastic, Hermoine?” He turns his smile to me; it’s a wide, full-toothed grinned I haven’t seen since we lived in Paris.

I try to share Papa’s excitement, but I physically can’t. “Papa…” I begin slowly, my mind trying to decide what words I shall use without dampening his spirits. “It’s been three years since your ships were lost at sea. How can you be certain this ship is  _ La Sirѐne _ and that its goods are still intact?”

He reaches across the table so he can hold my hands. “Even if it isn’t one of my ships, what’s the harm in going to Le Havre just to see? Besides, if such a risk pays off, we can return to our old lives again!”

My heart falls, and so does my gaze.

I never want to return to Paris. I don’t dare compare it to a prison, but I found it to be a suffocating, repetitive life of uneventful balls,  robe à la françaises , salons, panniers, and necklines overflowing with silk ribbons and lacey bows. However, I was grateful for--and almost miss--the occasional handful of blue-grey wig powder whenever my hair was somehow tamed into a high coiffure or a heavily feathered hat to hide its unholy frizz.

Here, in a cottage hidden away from the world by a vast forest and at least a day’s journey away from any city, I feel free. I  _ am _ free! I can bask in early morning sunlight filtering between the pines after tending to the hens. I can find comfort in burying my bare hands into wet dirt and have it stain the aprons of my dress with no repercussions. I can read what I wish--one day, I may favor the political prose of Thomas Paine while the next I’d rather find myself engrossed in Horace Walpole’s  _ Castle of Otranto _ \--while curled in a low-hanging branche’s embrace and balancing Crookshanks in my lap.

The forest, the cottage, the garden, the roses, and even the infestation of fairies have made this once-desolate place into my sanctuary, and the letter Papa holds, the risk it desires for him to take and the potential outcomes, threaten to steal it away from me.

“Hermione?” Papa’s voice is soft, coaxing my chin to lift so I can look at him. The letter quivers again. “What’s the matter? Aren’t you happy? We finally have the key to our salvation…”

I sigh and look out the window, staring deep into the forest until I see the fleeting movement of a doe stalking through the underbrush. “I just… I just wish to stay here longer…” I look back down and shrug. “That’s all.”

“But bankruptcy banished us here. Do you not wish to escape? I mean, I swear you spend most of your days protecting your roses from those fairies--”

I purse my lips into a firm line and glare at my father. “I don’t see this as banishment, Papa!” I then lift my chin. “And protecting my roses only aids in me feeling more proud of them.”

Papa sighs and releases my hands. More heavy silence fills the whole cottage, making me feel uncomfortable in my seat as Papa rakes a hand through his greying hair. As a child, I remember wishing my hair was smooth and silky like his. 

Then, suddenly, his face brightens. “Then, how about we use the money from  _ La Sirѐne _ ’s cargo to make life more comfortable here? Yes! We can add onto the cottage! Give ourselves separate bedrooms, a greenhouse, larger hen houses…” He lists off every new addition on a finger.

Though the idea isn’t any more appealing to me, this is the closest we will ever come to a compromise. My lips lilt into a small smile and nod in our ‘agreement’.

Excited once more, Papa claps his hands. “It’s decided, then!” He stands so abruptly his chair nearly tumbles backwards. “Tomorrow, I shall leave to retrieve our fortune!”


	3. Two - Le Rosier

While sitting atop Gunpowder, dressed in his old, dark blue frock coat with golden buttons and dusty tricorn, Papa almost resembles the proud merchant I remember from my childhood. The proud merchant who boasted about his armada of chips trading all throughout Asia, who prided himself as a man of hard work, who won the favor and good graces of dukes and duchesses, countesses and earls.

He’s mumbling under his breath as he sorts through his satchel, “Map… compass--” A sudden look darkens his eyes, but I grin knowing I’m holding what he’s missing.

“Lunch?” I ask and hold up a small cloth-wrapped parcel.

“Ah, of course, lunch! Thank you, my dear,” He takes my offering and tucks it into his bag. “So, what can I get for you in Le Havre? I insist on bringing a gift back for you!”

I lightly stroke Gunpowder’s muzzle when she presses it into my shoulder, and I shake my head. “I only request your safe return, nothing more and nothing less.”

His brow furrows, almost as if he’s disappointed that I didn’t ask for a new silken shawl rather than the aged brown one I wear now or a pretty, bejeweled dress I can wear whenever I venture out to the market. “But I must bring you  _ something _ ! Perhaps I can bring you new roses? Pink ones would be rather complimentary with your white ones, I think! Oh, or red!”

Laughing, I shake my head once again. “No, red is far too bombastic. But let us not discuss roses for too long, you have a long day’s journey ahead of you!”

“Alright, alright,” He laughs and tips his hat with a wink, “I shall return safely, then, with pink roses.”

I stand beside Crookshanks on the porch as I watch Papa go, and I don’t leave my spot until Gunpowder’s hooves against the path echo into deafening silence.

I sigh and hold my knuckles to my lips. “Be safe…”

#

Hugo Granger is hopelessly lost.

After several hours, it feels as though Gunpowder has only been trotting in a wide circle with no indication as to which direction they are going. Even his compass must have fallen victim to the forest’s magic because it’s been lazily spinning for hours with no intent on settling on a single cardinal direction.

Fairies robbed him of his map towards the beginning of his journey when he stopped to enjoy Hermoine’s lunch (some generous slices of cheese and bread), so now he is just taking his chances with what roads he chooses to traverse and paying that they will magically take him to Le Havre.

As the forest continues to thicken, the twinkling, mischievous laughter of faeries can be heard from deep within the thickets. Several times, they’ve tried to lure Hugo from the road by calling out to him in a nearly perfect mimicry of Hermoine’s voice. But Hugo knows better. He knows how fairies love to lead weary travelers astray, and that he will be safe just as long as he isn’t foolish enough to step off the path.

“They must be seeking revenge for Hermoine refusing them her roses,” Hugo remarks with a grim smile when another fairy mocking Hermoine’s wail echo from somewhere between the drooping conifers. He then remembers how somber she seemed upon receiving the news that they have a chance at returning to the life they once had in Paris. But why should he have been surprised?

Hermoine was so much like her late mother: a woman with a free spirit that other women would call odd because she preferred finding herself nestled in a castle of throw pillows with a book rather than participating in salons. It’s no wonder she favors the welcoming, green isolation of the forest and the company of roses, chickens, fairies, and a flat-faced cat over that of makeup-laden socialites.

Guilt weighs heavy in Hugo’s heart. “I wish she would be happy about the prospect of our fortune returning, Gunpowder. But I’m sure a rose will bring her some joy!” He hopes and pats the mare’s grey neck. He then casts his weary eyes skywards, spying a darkening purple sky speckled by stars. “Do you suppose we ought to be in search of an outpost--”

Before he can finish his question, he sees a light. A distant one, like a lantern, glimmering at the end of the forested road.

“Ah, there we go!” With a swift kick into Gunpowder’s side, the mare throws her head back with a whine and her fatigued trot evolved into an excited canter. But as the light draws nearer, Gunpowder slows her pace, as if becoming apprehensive as to the light’s source, and once they reach a towering wrought iron gate with glowing lanterns hanging on either side, she comes to a complete stop with an anxious knicker.

“Easy, easy!” Hugo hisses when she throws her head back with a horrific cry. He tries to see what lies beyond the gate that would agitate the old mare, but the darkness of the oncoming night and his frightened steed make it impossible to decipher any organic shapes hiding within the squatting shadows. All he can make out is how the dirt road transforms into a neat path of white pebbles.

Hope sparks in his chest and he smiles. “Perhaps there’s an inn on the--”

The gates open with a deep, moaning wail, and Gunpowder rears onto her hindlegs with a blood-curdling shriek, sending Hugo tumbling from the saddle and into the dirt.

With another howl, the grey mare stamps her hooves and then disappears back into the darkness of the forest, leaving Hugo Granger in a crumpled heap.

Hugo doesn’t know why he remains frozen on the dirt path when one of clean, white gravel lies only a mere two feet away. But the chill does allow him a few moments for his heart to calm and the pain piercing his skeleton to subside before resting his weight against the gate and standing.

“Stupid horse…” He wheezes, his breath finally catching up with him. “Well,” He casts several glances between the ever-darkening forest and the newly emerging series of lights (perhaps candlelight cast through a myriad of windows?) twinkling within the new darkness. “I have no choice but to ask for a bed for tonight. Hopefully they have a spare horse…”

During his rather long and tedious trek along the gravel path, Hugo discovers a sprawling, seemingly endless lawn lying just beyond the gates. A land of high, neatly-trimmed hedge roses, patches of grass that look as though each blade was individually cut to perfection, and the multitude of marble statues faintly resembling Greek deities looming over the path, holding dark lanterns in their outstretched, perfect hands

The lanterns burst forth with life whenever Hugo passes a new statue, further illuminating the path, as well as the statues’ faces--or rather the lack thereof. 

Divots--four of them, to be exact--disfigure and obscure faces intended to be the goddess Artemis and her stags or the goatish god Pan with his pan flute. It’s when Hugo reaches a hand towards a statue’s face (the figure of a burning anvil chiseled into the stone around its feet hint at its identity being Hephaestus) and traces his quivering fingers along the marks that he realizes such marks can only be made by the claws of some ungodly creature, like a werewolf.

Hugo suddenly turns his gaze upward when cold fear seizes in his chest, and wheezes in relief with seeing the rising moon’s crescent shape. But the relief upon the lack of a full moon is short-lived, as there may be other creatures prowling these gardens--such as a Sphinx with deadly riddles deep within the maze of hedge roses--, watching him from the shadows and waiting to tear him apart with the very same talons that defaced the statues. 

The lights at the end of the path are growing larger and longer, and an immense shadow resembling a building begins to emerge, but Hugo feels that it’s too late to be afraid and run away.

A light layer of mist slithers across the grounds, accompanied with a slight chill that leads Hugo to hug his arms close to his chest with a fierce shiver. He pushes forward with a small smile when the looming building comes closer, but it’s also because of this that he slows down when he realizes this building is no typical inn.

With the hundreds--four stories worth--of tall, mullioned windows housing warm light, gilded architecture, and even more marble figures sculpted into wrought iron balconies and the short staircase leading up to a front doorway that’s easily taller than the Granger’s cottage, Hugo realizes that this is a palace. If it weren’t for the decimated statues and the fact this place is hidden deep within a dark wood, he would have thought he’s stumbled onto the front step of Versailles.

Cautiously, he ascends the stairs towards the massive double doors. The wood, a dark brown oaken kind of wood, is decorated by a variety of carvings ranging from depictions of hunters atop horses and their hounds pursuing a wild boar to simple imagery of does traversing through a quaint wood with fairies upon their backs. After admiring such craftsmanship, he raises a fist to the iron knockers fashioned into the gaping maws of serpentine creatures but he is blessed with a wave of warm air when the doors are pulled inward.

He hurries through the threshold and around the doors in order to thank the footmen, but is only greeted by empty air. Confusion pushes his lips into a slight frown as he steps further into the yawning entrance hall. But he attempts to quiet the part of his brain puzzling over the phantom that let him into the castle so his eyes can have a chance to take in the hall’s beauty.

It’s a broad, circular room made entirely out of gold and white marble so cleanly polished that it instead resembles lucid glass. From the highly domed ceiling hangs a golden canopy of crystalline chandeliers that cast a warm, gentle, and cheerful glow over the room with their hundreds of thousands of candles. The only exits from the hall are two closed doors leading to separate wings and the grand staircase flanked by two more disfigured statues of what must be seraphs with their wings circled around arms embracing golden candelabras that yawns before Hugo. It leads to a second story of rounded balconies that span only half of the room. From what can be seen of this new level, there are no doors, only empty hallways with walls covered in paintings.

When Hugo squints just enough, he can make out that some portraits are vandalized by claw marks.

The squeaking cry of opening doors snap Hugo from the trance the room’s beauty had put him under, and he sees that the doors leading to the palace’s east wings have opened, and the smell of roast duck begins to permeate the air. A growl shudders through his whole body, and has no choice but to follow the tantalizing scent.

“Perhaps then I can meet the master of this estate and ask for lodging!” He says with a hopeful smile, and moves with an eager gait.

The new hallway contains the same glass-like marble and golden linings as the entrance hall, though it contains more broken statues and shredded paintings, and it opens into a grand dining room that is wide and tall like the entrance hall. There are three more levels of balconies leading to unseen hallways that line the dining room’s high walls. On its ceiling, past the chandeliers of crystal and gold, is a grand mural of handsome cherubs dancing within fluffy, pink clouds and smiling down at a table long enough to seat all of Louis XIV’s court and more that’s overflowing with a grand feast.

Between the glass-and-gold candelabras, which flicker to life along with the immense fireplace spanning what seems to be the entirety of the north-facing wall as Hugo approaches, are mountains of roasted poultry, glazed hams, seasoned vegetables, gravies, buttered croissants, and puddings. Only one spot is set at the furthest end of the table.

Still, there is no sign of the castle’s master.

To empty air, Hugo calls, “Would you mind if I serve myself?” It would be a shame so see so much food go to waste…

The single chair pulls itself out as a reply.

“Oh,” He runs a hand over the craftsmanship of the chair. It’s cedar carved into serpentine figures of sabre-toothed cobras intertwined within an entanglement of elk-like horns. “Well, thank you.”

The velvet cushion is warmed from the mammoth fire, and he sighs a great, heavy sigh as the warmth blossoms throughout his body.

He pours scarlet wine that smells heavily of some fruit he cannot name from a glass ewer, and he toasts his goblet into the air. “Thank you, whomever you are, for your hospitality! I am forever indebted to you and your kindness.”

What ensues is what may be the greatest meal Hugo has ever tasted.

His mouth is assaulted and blessed by flavors both familiar and new: the hams possess a comforting flavor of honey and rosemary, while the poultry have a fruity tang that’s foreign to his tongue. The puddings are sweeter than anything he’s tasted before, the gravies more hearty. It all brings him back to the finery of Paris as he takes another liberal swig of wine with a chuckle.

His hand straddles over his goblet as he sits back in his chair with a heavy, content sigh. His belly is happy being full of warm food.  _ Good _ food. “If only Hermoine were here to enjoy it with me…” 

He can envision her in an elegantly-carved chair, dressed in a silken pink dress he would have bought in Le Havre with a necklace of diamonds and sapphires strung across her powdered throat to match the teardrop-shaped earrings dangling from lobes hidden underneath her dark brown mane of unruly curls decorated with silk bows.

After a final sip of wine, ignoring the ewer that filled itself once more and deciding he’s had enough of the rich meal, Hugo rises from his seat and gives a great yawn.

Whatever magic that greeted him like an esteemed guest must have sensed his fatigue, because a new door on the opposite end of the wide dining hall opens with a gentle squeak.

Hugo leads himself through the new series of hallways with even more walls of glass marble, massacred portraits, and decimated statues. Golden sconces in the shape of serpents that hold their candles on outstretched forked tongues replace the chandeliers, and now tall, mullioned windows expose a vast and endless courtyard with more hedge roses and a man-made lake prettily reflecting the crescent moon.

Hugo pauses abruptly in order to observe something rather peculiar nestled in the very center of the courtyard. Whatever it is, it’s tall and emits a gentle, tempting red glow.

Eagerly, he abandons the hall and the possibility of a warm bed in search for a way out into the courtyard, his desire to find out what the unusual form is driving him forth. He wouldn’t be able to sleep if he left such a mystery unsolved.

He finds such an exit tucked in a dining room corner beside the long fireplace (he also finds that the entire feast has disappeared, and the fireplace and candelabras are devoid of their merry light). It’s a glass door that whatever magic is there refuses to open for him, only giving way underneath his weight when he presses his shoulder into the glass.

He traverses across the fog-laden garden, twisting through the maze of hedge roses until he reaches the form, only stopping when he’s frightened by a doe that suddenly bursts forth from the object and canters off into the foggy darkness.

When he reaches the glimmering figure, his jaw slacks and eyes widen when he realizes that it, being at least twenty feet high, is a rosebush. A monstrous one with brambles that curve like a falcon’s talon and crimson blooms easily the size of Hugo’s fist that are each softly emitting their own glow. The dark pink lights originating from the center of each blossom fades for a moment, only the return brighter than ever. And such a pattern continues again and again, as if a beating heart is caged within the petals.

Hugo is enamored by the roses and their ethereal glimmer, and smiles rather stupidly. Thousands of crimson petals curl like a woman’s pure lips juxtaposed with the harsh beastliness of the thorns provide a unique, dangerous beauty he has seen nowhere else and possessed by no one else.

The petals, however, are softer than any woman’s lips and smoother than the finest silks when Hugo reaches a hand out to caress one of the blooms.

The idea of flowers such as these with their glowing heartbeat and beauteous shade of scarlet encasing the Granger’s cottage rather than plain white is a rather handsome one. And, after all, he did promise Hermoine a gift...

Without a second thought, Hugo picks the rose.

No sooner does he pick the rose that it instantly withers and crumples into crimson dust in his palm.

There’s no time to register the rose’s unusual ailment before a horrific cry akin to the strangled wail of an elk fills the air and Hugo is thrown to the ground by an unseen pair of unforgiving hands. 

“So  _ this _ is how you repay my generosity?!” A guttural, baritone roar fills the air and ice-cold talons latch onto Hugo’s throat

He wheezes and stares up at his assailant, and is met by a pair of cold, bottomless eyes that are blacker than even the most unforgiving shadows. Fear grips his heart when the roses’ glow reveals a grotesque, gaunt face disfigured by a cruel snarl and eyes filled with nothing but pure hatred. A hand with fingers ending in curved talons more hideous than the one’s pinning Hugo down curl into a fist.

“Is my generosity not enough for you? I allowed you passage into my castle, gave you food, warmth, and shelter, and yet you had to steal what I hold most precious to me!” The Beast’s talons grip Hugo’s throat even tighter, and the crimson dust in Hugo’s palm suddenly feels heavier. The one talon poised over his jugular lightly punctures the skin and a single rivulet of scarlet drips into the damp grass.

“I am a man of honor! I shall not be treated like a lowly thief!” Hugo writhes underneath the creature. He realizes that such boldness will have to be swallowed when the Beast’s thumb adorned by a curved claw dangerously traces up and down his throat. “I only meant to take the rose as a gift for my daughter!”

The Beast’s grip loosens, but only for a brief moment before they resume their constricting hold. “I ought to kill you right at this very moment…” He snarls, making Hugo’s face skewer with a wince.

“Pl-please, wait! Allow me a single day! A single day to say goodbye to my daughter and to arrange a future for her! I beg of you!”

The silence that follows is sickening and heavy. The Beast’s black eyes glaze over with thought, and his free hand grabs a fist full of the midnight-black robes that billow around him like wings--or are they wings?

He sneers, “One. Day. I shall allow you one day to say your goodbyes,” He then leans down until Hugo can smell the stench of death upon his breath, “But if you do not return, I shall hunt you down and kill both you and your precious daughter.”

His talons snap, and there is the slap of horse hooves against the grass.

“Tell to the horse where you desire to go, and it will bring you there,” 

The talons leave Hugo’s throat and he inhales a grateful, painful breath of air. He stares up at the Beast as he stands hunched over him and beckons a red roan mare sporting a leather saddle gilded with gold over to him.

“One day.” The Beast holds up a single talon, his scowl deepening. “And remember… A Life for a Rose.” His robes surround him in a cloud of black as he disappears into the deep fog with a final growl that sends a painful chill through Hugo’s bones.

_ A Life for a Rose. _

Fear immobilizes him, his breath escaping him in short wheezing spurts. Ice-cold pressure remains on his throat where the Beast’s talons were secured only moments before.

_ A Life for a Rose. _

The mare stamps a hoof and gently nudges his shoulder with a worried-sounding knicker.

_ A Life for a Rose. _

It takes Hugo several moments for his fear to subside and to mount the horse.

_ A Life for a Rose. _

“Take… Take me home…” Hugo’s whisper is solemn and weak as he slouches on the saddle.

_ A Life for a Rose. _

The horse’s gallop is gentle, but yet anxious to leave the castle’s grounds.

_ A Life for a Rose. _

Hugo clutches the reins and skewers his eyes shut even as they pass through the iron gates. The Beast’s hideous form lingers in the shadows the very same way his ominous words cling to his brain.

_ A Life for a Rose. _


	4. Three - Le Dèpart

Crookshanks’s tail flops onto my page, then off it, then back onto it, obscuring the words of Voltaire in a thicket of orange fur.

Any other day, I would have batted his tail away in order to protect my precious books from being dirtied by cat hair, but this time I don’t. Instead, I stare down the dirt road from my perch in an evergreen’s lowest branch, ignoring his flickering bottle-brush tail.

I know a simple trip through the forest isn’t dangerous if you stay on the path, and Papa knows this, too. But I couldn’t help but allow worry to weigh heavy in my gut the very moment he left yesterday morning. Even Crookshanks catching another fairy (one with coral-pink feathers and wings) couldn’t ease the uneasiness crushing my shoulders. Instead, it only made the sensation strangle me. Perhaps vengeful fairies managed to lead him off the path or lead him down the wrong roads and even deeper into the labyrinthine forest.

Today, there’s no sunlight filtering through the pines that can bring me comfort. A heavy, suffocating curtain of mist fills the wood, leaving a light layer of bulbous dew drops that glitter upon my roses’ snow-white buds.

I jolt upright, sending Crookshanks tumbling from my lap with a hissing yelp, when a high-pitched whinny echoes in the wood. Anxiously, with a small smile, I wait for Gunpowder to emerge from the fog with a jovial-looking Papa upon her back, his satchel and saddle weighing heavy with various goods.

But instead, a horse with a chestnut-red coat and blazing red mane carries the hunched, solemn figure of my father.

“Papa!” I cry, abandoning Crookshanks and my book on my branch in order to race towards the mysterious, new horse. I want to smile and celebrate Papa’s safe return, but my stomach drops when I see just how lifeless he appears while ragged, wheezing gasps shudder through his body. “Papa?! Papa, what’s wrong?”

I don’t wait for an answer before I tug him off the mare, furrow my brow at the expensive saddle she wears and how it’s devoid of any bags that would indicate Papa making it to Le Havre, and wrap him in my shawl while coaxing him into the cottage’s welcoming heat.

He remains silent as I sit him at the table, drape the quilt from his bed across his slacked shoulders, and begin heating a kettle for tea. Through the window, I puzzle at the manner in which the mare paces back and forth before the porch, only pausing here and there to scrape one of her golden hooves into the dirt.

Papa’s hands embracing his chipped cup are quivering, even when I grab hold of them and rub over the wrinkles with my thumb.

“Papa, please tell me what happened. I can tell you never made it to Le Havre. The horse--of which isn’t even our own--doesn’t have any bags, and you’re all covered in dirt,” I lightly brush a clipping of grass so green that it almost resembles a blade made of pure emerald from his shoulder, then rub a small smudge of dirt staining the very tip of his slightly upturned nose. He leans into my touch when it cups his cheek with a sound that makes me fear his groan will shatter into a sob.

“The forest’s magic ruined my compass, fairies stole my map… I… was lost…” He sighs, his brown eyes still hollow and hazed, and he continues his tale.

With the help of his story, I am swept away to a castle made of frosted glass and golden balconies, wandering and dancing underneath the forest of ornate chandeliers of crystals while under the watchful eye of deformed marble deities. I can envision rose bushes so massive they instead resemble oak trees in a massive, sprawling garden and the roses that glow with an ethereal heartbeat... 

Just the magic in Papa’s words alone enthralls me and ignites a craving so see this fantastical place. However, such wonder shatters when he begins to describe his encounter with the Beast.

His hand quivers when his fingers unfurl, revealing a palm faintly stained with a crimson powder. “A Life for a Rose, he said… In a few hours, I must return to the castle and give my life to him in return for the rose I’ve stolen…”

The room begins to spin around me as bitter nausea poisons my gut and throat. In a few hours, Papa is to return to the Beast because he picked a rose. In a few hours, my father is to be slaughtered by grotesque, cruel claws because of a single rose. A damn flower! A… a gift for me… 

Papa is going to die because of me.

“Bu-But… You mustn't go!” I cry, my grip finding itself latched onto his knee as I collapse to the floor.

“I have to…” Shaking, he says in a voice barely louder than a dying whisper, “or else he will kill us both…”

“Allow me to go in your place, then! I was the one who you picked the rose for! It’s I who should be punished, not you, Papa!”

“No!” For the first time since his return, an angry, bold tone of youth sharpens his voice. “Hermoine, I am old, I have lived my life! You’re young, and I refuse to let some creature steal your life away from you!”

My pursed lips part as a ragged breath tears from my throat, and I tear my face away from his gaze when hot tears prick the corners of my eyes.

The insistent pawing of the horse’s hoof against wet dirt are the only thing to be heard within the cottage aside from my harsh breaths.

“Hermoine…” Papa finally says in a grim tone, but I interrupt him before more can be said.

“Mother died giving birth to me,” I say slowly, apprehensively, then look up so our eyes meet. A deep sadness ages his face and darkens his eyes. Upon his knee, my hand closes into a tight fist as a thought crosses my mind, and I must purse my lips as I hang my head so the sob burning my throat doesn’t burst forth.

My mind has been made up, and I stand suddenly, nearly startling Papa out of his own chair.

“I refuse to be responsible for your death, too!” 

With that, I sharply turn and sprint to the door, pausing only to retrieve my dark pink traveling cloak from its hook.

“Hermoine, no, wait--!” Papa’s cries are cut off when I slam the door behind me.

The mare tilts her head with her golden hoof poised to stamp at the ground again, almost as if confused to see me barreling down the porch steps rather than my father.

“Take me to the Beast!” I hiss to the mare and clamber onto the saddle.

“Hermoine, no!” Papa wails from the steps, a furry streak of orange zipping from between his legs and leaping onto the saddle, into my lap.

I refuse to look my father in the eye. I can stomach the guilt later, but not now when it could endanger me to second-guess my morbid decision. “I love you, Papa…”

Crookshanks claws latch onto my leg as the horse rears up and kicks golden hooves in the air.

I keep my face pressed into the mare’s red mane as we take off down the road... into the mist... away from the cottage…

Away from freedom and into captivity…

“A Life for a Rose…” I whimper.

And like the dour howl of a newborn werewolf, Papa’s wail resounds deep into the dampened thickets and high above the great pines.


	5. Four - La Bête

The forest is closing in on us, clawing at us with crooked limbs as we race between the misty pines. Everything is being snagged and shredded. My hands, my cheeks, my dress, my hair all fall victim as I keep my body hunched over Crookshanks to protect him from the unforgiving branches.

Papa’s wails echo in my mind, a sound that threatens to shatter my heart if I am to hear it any longer, and it is suddenly replaced by a new voice. A new, grotesque growl that scrapes across the interior of my cranium as the forest begins to part, and reveals the rows of statues and walls of roses Papa’s words painted for me.

Immediately, an image of the Beast intrudes my thoughts when the mare passes through the high iron gates with a calm gait. Two merciless eyes glitter from within a hunched mass of the blackest night, and the baritone voice snarls again, this time with words that are comprehensible, “Welcome, mademoiselle…”

There’s a warmth on my back that prompts me to sit up on the saddle to see the faintest rays of sunlight piercing through the misty veil and illuminating the low, sprawling, Versailles-like castle.

As we approach the castle, Crookshanks growls but perks his ears in great interest. And, in the landscaping flanking the front steps, I see what causes him curious discomfort.

Animals of all sorts--such as a trio of peacocks, wolves easily the size of ponies, a silver tabby cat wearing a disgruntled expression, a great black dog, and several hares whiter than snow-- fill the emerald lawn before the marble steps with all their heads lowered, as if in reverence.

The great oak doors open when the mare comes to a stop before the stairs, and Crookshanks wastes no time escaping the saddle in order to join the rather peculiar ranks of animals, sniffing them all with an eager twitch of his tail.

With caution, I slide off the saddle, but I’m hesitant to abandon the mare, my hand remaining shivering on her neck as I stare up at the castle. Papa described the palace being decorated by marble statues of deities, angels, and gods with beautiful bodies, but all I see are stone demons with twisted frames, ram-like heads with maws filled with terrible fangs, and lanterns hanging from hideous limbs that are a hybrid of talons and cloven hooves.

The horse whinnies a low, sorrowful bray and presses her nose against my back, as if urging me to finally enter my new prison.

Sucking in a deep breath, I tighten my jaw and ascend the stairs.

The entrance hall is devoid of any cheery light, instead bathed in a darkness Papa neglected to describe in his tales. On the second story’s landing, candelabras ignite and, with no other open doors or any footmen or Beast to welcome me, I have no choice but to allow whatever magic is here to guide me through the castle.

The candlelight escorts me further into the castle’s underbelly, through hallways where the decimated paintings and sculptures all become hidden underneath thick blankets of roses. The vines are growing through the windows, snaking across the walls and the floor, eagerly awaiting to capture a stray curl of mine or to hook around my ankle as I pass.

After going up another flight of stairs, passing through a third-floor breezeway that allows me to see the courtyard gardens through cathedral-style arches, and twisting through a series of rose-filled corridors, candles cease to light themselves after a tall set of periwinkle-colored doors gilded with rose-gold metal around the frame.

I frown with a confused scrunch of my brow. It seems far too grand of an entrance to a room meant for a girl that’s to be executed by dinner. And why am I being given a room if I’m here to serve a death sentence?

Just like all the other doors in this palace, these ones are opened by unseen footmen, revealing a room that’s beauty robs me of my breath with a shallow, drawn-out gasp.

It’s massive, easily large enough to fit two cottages within its confines, and packed with plush pink furniture, empty bookshelves, and more rose-covered vines snaking from the wall of cracked mullioned windows facing the forest. The walls are a shade of off-white that compliments the pink canopy bed close enough to the windows that the roses have overtaken the bedposts, holding back the silk drapes with their thorns as if the nature of the castle intended them to be curtain tassels.

There’s unusual comfort when a familiar buzz of fairies hiding between the brambles fills the dreadful silence. I smile when I see the movement of multicolored wings hiding near the window knowing Crookshanks--perhaps even myself-- has the opportunity to continue his fairy hunting.

My boots softly tap against a floor of white-and-gold Italian marble so finely polished that my image reflects in it more clearly than the mirror at the foot of the bed, and I’m ashamed of the image I see.

Red scratches cover my face, my freckles obscured by a trail of dried blood oozing from my cheek. Stray twigs remain in my hair and the bushy bangs that curl over my bleeding brows, making me seem like a woman of the wilds. My cloak, the hem of my dress, and my sleeves are all torn, revealing more bleeding cuts on my hands, torso, and legs. The ragged, colorless state of my appearance only makes me feel more alienated amongst the grandeur of the marble, gold, and roses.

An aggressive roar tears through the room when a flame ignites in the fireplace--which is made entirely out of gold and sculpted into the face of a roaring lion--on the far side of the room, and I sharply turn to I see a mannequin dressed in golden finery beside the fireplace. The dress is the same color of fresh cream with layers of golden lace and pearls lining the low-cut square neckline and elbow-length sleeves. Small silhouettes of stags are embroidered all across the gown’s long, trailing skirts with small trails of beads following behind them like tracks.

I’m sickened at the uncanny resemblance the dress has to a wedding gown when I reach a hand out to caress the fine silk.

“Come, dine with me… Seven o’clock,  _ precisely _ ,” The Beast’s voice startles me when it rumbles across my mind, every word seeming to end with a cold snarl. “I will be waiting…”

#

Contrary to his ominous words, the Beast is nowhere to be seen when the candles assisted in helping me find my way to the dining hall. 

And why is that a bad thing? I’m glad I haven’t met the creature that holds my fate within his talons. In fact, I’d be blessed if I don’t ever see him, and I pray that I won’t

I’ve refused to wear the Beast’s dress, despite feeling more out of place in my torn brown one as I sit in a chair carved into the intertwined shapes of cobras and elk horns; if I am to die, why should I give the Beast the satisfaction in dying wearing his gifts? But I do retain some pride and cleaned my wounds and plucked debris from my hair in the bathroom that adjoined my bedchambers. I don’t wish to be known as a heathen, even in death.

Before me is a feast of roasted pork, fruits, and wines that had suddenly appeared the moment I entered the room, but I have no appetite. I don’t even think the sweetness of wine could heal the dryness burning my throat. The thought of how my life will end at any moment robs me of any desire to eat the rich food or enjoy the fine wines. Even the humble fire smoldering in the immense fireplace’s gut doesn’t warm the chill of fear encasing my throat.

The wine quivers when, from somewhere within the unholy depths of the castle, a guttural chime of an unseen clock tolls out like a funeral bell.

It’s seven o’clock.

And then, not too long after the bell tolls, a door opens… closes… then the click of high-stacked heels against marble slowly approaching my chair from behind… the scraping of long claws against the back of my seat… the heat of rotting breath against my neck… 

“I see you have not enjoyed my gifts,” The Beast’s growl is low and slowly resonates from the back of his throat, as if he cautiously chooses every word before they escape his lips--if he even has any.

The clicking of his heels rounds the chair, and I hold my breath as I await to see my executioner, only to soon release it in a horrible sound that’s the ragged hybrid of a scream and gasp.

The creature does indeed possess the merciless eyes of bottomless black that Papa described, but this… this  _ thing _ is more horrible beyond its eyes!

The fire illuminates a horribly gaunt, sallow face that’s framed by a long, elegantly curled wig the color of mud--I’ve only ever seen older noblemen wear such a wig-- and etched with lines of bitterness. A scowl parts his pale lips just enough to reveal a mouth of yellowed teeth that all end in predatory points. The perfect fangs to tear my throat...

A fine black coat that’s pleated at his knees with an overabundance of silver buttons and embroidery fail to hide the fact his body is far too long and far too lank; silken layers of lace protruding from the coat’s cuffs fail to conceal fingers ending in the curved talons that are perfect weapons to disembowel me; breeches and hunting boots donning silver buckles molded into the shapes of intertwined serpents fail to disguise the inhuman, avian bend of his elongated ankles; a long black cloak trimmed with rotting feathers along the collar fail to mask the Beast’s posture resembling a vulture’s hunch-backed stance as it devours carrion.

The obnoxiously severe hook of his nose even resembles a vulture’s deformed beak as he strides over to the fireplace with his talons fastened behind his back, his eyes refusing to look at anything other than me. Underneath the firelight, I finally notice black feathers--though they more resemble wiry black hairs as their lush softness has long since rotted away--decorating his talons, the sagging skin underneath his eyes, and along his sharpened cheeks.

“I repulse you,” He said in a matter-of-factly tone, his sneer becoming even more embittered despite the sarcastic playfulness in his voice. “But, please,” a claw is waved towards the feast, “eat.”

When I don’t move a muscle, instead electing to just stare at the Beast with my hands quivering in my lap, he raises a hairless brow and frowns.

“Is it not to your liking, mademoiselle?”

Once I’m able to comprehend that this warped creature is talking to me, I finally say, “It all seems wonderful, but my appetite has abandoned me as I’m pondering if I’m meant to be eaten with a glass of red wine or white.”

This raises a laugh from the Beast. It’s a dry, cawing bray that grinds against my ears and twists my face with a wince.

“Mademoiselle, I can assure you that you’re far too thin to be made into a satisfactory meal,” He begins to approach me with an outstretched hand; I fail to ignore the dangerous gleam of the candlelight on his claws. When his odor of rotting feathers and wig powder permeates the pleasant smells of roast ham, I do my best to withhold a gag. His claws settle on the back of my chair again when he whispers, his hot breath sticking to my ear, “I insist you eat so you will have the strength to wander wherever your heart desires within your new domain. But once night falls, you… you are forbidden from leaving the castle.”

“Why? What happens at night?” I ask, but my question is only met by unnerving silence. The Beast’s odor slowly fades from the atmosphere. In my peripheral vision, his dark shape is absent. “Monsieur? Monsieur, are you there?” I dare to turn in my chair, and find to see that the Beast is gone, being replaced by empty air.


	6. Five - La Demande

The Beast is absent when I enter the dining room for breakfast (or, I at least assumed there would be a grand breakfast), and I’m grateful that he isn’t here to witness I caved in and am wearing the new dress the mannequin was wearing when I awoke to the warmth of the rising sun kissing my cheeks.

It’s an elegant gown so light green it’s almost white with short, puffed sleeves ending in the same lace-and-pearl jewelry adorning the high neckline. Patterns of white vines and leaves fill the tight bodice and short hem. 

Some of the fairies--all ranging in shades of pink, red, and white--were adamant on arranging my hair, so I had (begrudgingly) let them plait and pin my hair into a high-set, braided mound of mid-brown bushy-ness kept in place by pearl hairpins. They also desired to powder my face and paint my lips red, but Crookshanks had come to my rescue by returning from his nocturnal exploration of the castle and scared the fairies back into their floral hiding places before they could force any makeup upon my cheeks.

While the candelabras and fireplace light upon my entrance (I don’t think I will ever adjust to candles lighting themselves), a feast neglects to appear on the table, and my stomach groans a very audible snarl of protest. Perhaps I should have eaten last night… 

With no food to break my fast and no Beast to decide my fate, I decide that I shall make use of newfound free time, as there are no chickens to feed, laundry to do, or roses to water, and explore my prison until the dreaded seven o’clock.

All the corridors I had yet to explore are no different than the ones I have already seen: the walls are still made of the same glassy marble, doorways are lined by gilded, golden sculptures, and everything is kept bright by chandeliers, candelabras, and windows covered in so many roses that the faint sunlight filtering through them casts a red shadow upon the polished floors.

After an hour or two, I grow tired of purposely becoming lost in the endless hallways and finding no new rooms aside from dusty bed chambers. I’m disappointed that with a castle as grand as this, I have not yet found any elegant ballrooms of gold, libraries overflowing with leather-bound books, or prestigious studies.

Bored with the castle’s interior, I decide that it’s time to dare traversing the gardens.

I don’t even step fully into the courtyard before two magpies tumbling through the air nearly slap me across the face with wings accented by unnaturally ginger feathers. They circle around my head with excited squeaks before careening back through the air and resuming their game of aerial tag.

There’s birdsong, aside from the hyper calls of the magpies, that swells the gardens like a peaceful symphony.

“My, oh my, Crookshanks,” I dramatically wheeze, my hand remaining on my chest, when my flat-faced orange companion abandons his sunbathing spot beside the disgruntled silver tabby in a patch of grass near a fountain in the shape of a woman holding a jug of water to greet me. A pair of wolves and the great black dog lay in another, separate patch of early afternoon sun not too far from my left. The larger of the wolves--a light brown male with light pink scars that mar his muzzle--only blinks at me lazily while his colleague--a she-wolf with stark-white fur that possesses an unusual pink and purple glimmer whenever she shifts underneath the sun--runs her tongue affectionately across his neck flecked by speckles of grey. 

“It seems as though you may have made quite a few friends already!” I smile when the black dog softly barks and wags his shaggy tail, but makes no move to desert the sunny spot he shares with his canine friends.

Circling my skirts, Crookshanks puffs out his chest with a proud meow, and his flattened muzzle scrunches with a feline grin.

_ Lucky you, _ I think when I crouch low to kiss the fur between his ears.

He softly licks my wrist before scampering off to return to the silver tabby.

The new cat regards me with a stern flick of her tail, but purrs when Crooks flops into a mass of orange fur beside her.

My walk through the maze of hedge roses is far more exhilarating--and wary--than through the castle. The roses’ heavy odor in combination with nature’s symphony lull me into a sense of tranquility, but I try my hardest to not let my guard down; I’m almost afraid to brush a finger against the roses with even the most brief of touches.

As my stroll continues and I wonder about where in this immense garden the Beast threatened to take my father’s life, I begin to notice sporadic flashes of white that hop onto the path behind me before hiding within the hedges again when I turn to make out the blue. 

Watching the movement out of the corner of my eye, I smile when a dainty hare with fur that can’t seem to decide on whether to be pure white or platinum blonde cautiously peeks from behind the base of a marble woman--resembling the deity Aphrodite--who’s breasts are shielded by vines of pink roses, then swiftly hide once more with a sharp squeak when I abruptly turn to face it.

Realizing what game the little creature wants to play, I continue on with slow steps, keeping watch in my peripheral vision for any further blurs of white and then sharply turning with a playful growl and my hands curved into claws whenever the blur hops a little too close.

Such a game continues until the hare decides to streak past my feet and race down further down the path in front of me, and I pursue with a light laugh.

The chase only leads me deeper into the rosy labyrinth, but I don’t mind. This little game has helped me forget the fact that I’m trapped here and that every moment may lead me closer to my potential execution. Well, somewhat, at least.

But our game comes to an abrupt end when the hare skids to a halt before a great rosebush, then scurries away to hide in a nearby bush with a series of squeaks, leaving me alone to gawk up at the great plant.

The imagination of blooms and beastly brambles almost looks more like a towering paper birch rather than a traditional bush with branches weighed heavy by the most beautiful roses I’ve ever seen. Instantly, I know I’m staring at the cursed object that led to my imprisonment here.

I don’t dare reach a hand out to touch the flowers, instead just observing and appreciating the beauty with my eyes. My skin pricks, and I see the wolves, dog, hare, and cat peering at me from between the hedges with all eyes seeming anxious.

“You are certainly wiser than your father to keep your hands off my roses,” The Beast’s growl startles me, and I swiftly dip my body into a brief, almost habitual curtsy ( _ You fool! This monster may dress in the finery of a duke, but he certainly doesn’t deserve such respect! _ ). The Beast dresses no differently than he did last night in his coat and cloak of black, but this time, he holds a finely plumed hat in talons that are (mercifully) sheathed in velvet gloves with rubies embroidered on the cuffs and knuckles.

With an extended hand, he caresses a rose with such revering tenderness I could never imagine beastly hands, though gloved, possessing.

“Fancy yourself a florist?” I ask, determined to break the awkward silence between us while also maintaining my distance from him.

His seemingly permanent sneer twitches into a smirk, his yellowed fangs glinting dully in the waning sunlight. “Of sorts, yes.”

“And why would a florist kill a man who admires his flowers enough to pick one as a gift? Shouldn’t that be considered an honor?”

The smile fades and there’s a dangerous darkening of his already bleak eyes. His gloved hand slowly closes into a quivering fist when he straightens his posture and hides both arms behind his back. A thin, whip-like tail ending in more wiry feathers--or is it greasy fur?--lashes so fiercely behind him that it nearly throws his cloak aside. “These blooms possess a meaning, to me, that is beyond your--and your father’s--comprehension,” and before I have the chance to request that he expand upon what he means, he extends an elbow to me. “May I escort you to dinner? ‘Tis almost seven o’clock.”

Such a gentlemanly gesture catches me by surprise, and I am at a momentary loss for words as I stare at the Beast’s offered elbow. Do I dare accept it and pretend to participate in this false tango of politeness until my death, or shall I ignore the gesture and counter it with the bitterness my heart holds towards this warped creature?

Despite threatening my father with death, the Beast  _ did _ , silently, offer Papa lodging that was rejected by the thievery of something he holds dear, and now he has shown the very same hospitality to me, giving me the finest foods, the expensive warmth of a good bed, and a dress that dampens the beauty of any that I had ever worn in Paris.

I’m grateful for the Beast’s gloves and thick coat when I decide to hook my hand through the crook of his arm, and I suppress a crinkle of my nose when his smell punctures the roses’ scent. “You may.”

#

“Won’t you dine with me?” I question when invisible hands wielding golden cutlery serve me generous helpings of fish lathered in butter and rosemary onto my plate and the Beast takes a seat on the opposite end of the table. Fortunately, the candelabras obscure his face.

“No, not in front of you.” 

I swallow when I deduce, based on his claws and leonine fangs, his words’ implications.

“Then, are you going to kill me this evening? All day, it has felt as though you’ve toying with my fate like a mouse between your claws.”

Even past the obscuring flicker of the candles, I see his bow furrow as his gloved hands steeple underneath his chin. “Mademoiselle, if it’s not obvious by now, it is not my intent to kill you.”

I sip fruity wine from my goblet after a small nibble of the fish. “Then what  _ is _ your intent? Why am I here if I’m not to die?”

With this, the Beast stands and traces a claw along the table when he slowly stalks towards me. “It’s my intention to make you the lady of this grand estate and for I to be your humble servant, bestowing you with whatever gifts your heart desires in order to make you happy here.” His eyes scan up and down my torso. It’s not the predatory gaze of a hungry scavenger or a man craving to give into his more savage urges, but rather a smug, satisfactory one that’s amused by the fact that I’m wearing one of these said gifts.

I look up at him, my grip on my goblet tightening as it’s poised before my lips. “But… Why, Beast?”

I’m not prepared for him to drop onto one knee and the sudden, pleading expression that enters his face. “Mademoiselle, will you marry me?”

The glass goblet escapes my grip and falls to the ground with a deafening crash, leaving a mess of shattered glass and blood-red wine before the Beast’s knee. “Wh-What?!” I gasp, suppressing my urge to scream the words. “Marry you?!” I’ve not even known him a single day and only had seen him as the monster that was to kill Papa over a flower, and he’s already asking for my hand without any form of courtship?

“Yes or no, mademoiselle? It’s simple. I just beg that you must be truthful with your answer.”

“No, Beast! I cannot marry you!”

He lowers his gaze, and I cannot decipher if it’s a gesture of defeat or grim acceptance, and he stands. He lightly bows and waves his feathered hat (something he seems to carry around as more of a decoration than an article of clothing) in a grand gesture. “Then, I bid you good-night, mademoiselle.”

Without saying another word or casting another gaze my way, he makes a swift exit. 

While the click of his boots echo across the chandeliers sharply and the shutting of the door reverberates through the air like the lock of a cell, the Beast’s proposal rings within the depths of my heart, the words strangling me as his dark eyes curse my mind once again.

_ Mademoiselle, will you marry me? _


	7. Six - La Duchesse

_ Blinding, silver light slices through the darkness as I sprint--though I feel like I’m wading through an ocean of molasses--down a dilapidated corridor of gargoyles, shattered windows, and spectral breezes that make the torn curtains and the skirts of my nightgown billow behind me like wings of white. _

_ Phantom whispers tickle my ears, breathing my name (“Come to us, Hermoine… Save us, Hermoine…”) as the light draws closer. _

_ The narrow hall opens into a great round room with a massive silvery pool in its very center. As I approach its banks fashioned into marble sculptures of roses, serpents, eagles, lions, and badgers with soundless steps, I struggle to decide if it’s a mirror or a pond with how perfectly it’s either reflecting unseen moonlight or emitting its own haunting glow. _

_ The silver surface is unnervingly still and it gently ripples only when I reach a tentative hand towards the pool in order to identify if the surface is, indeed, glass or water. _

_ Through the shivering waves of silver, an image begins to materialize. Green blobs, golden shadows, and moving blurs of ivory and rouge all meld together and merge into a depiction of the castle gardens with the hedge roses growing high as ever, the sculptures harboring beautiful, unmarred faces, and the gentle babbling of fountains that harmoniously blends with the distant song of sparrows. _

_ It feels as though I’ve fallen into the image when the familiar aroma of roses and damp grass tickling fills my lungs. _

_ The scene shifts, but only slightly, until I see a young woman kneeling before a rose bush, tending to it like the other gardeners occupying and grooming the grounds. It seems strange seeing people fill the lawn rather than various animals, though not nearly as strange as a noblewoman dressed in expensive robes and her shoulders powdered white working as though she’s a laborer herself. _

_ Unlike the servants, the woman is wearing a white, wide-hipped wedding dress with a lace veil layering over the waterfall of scarlet hair tumbling down her back and over her shoulder. The manner in which her dress pools around her knees and flares at her elbows give her the image of a demure swan drifting across the surface of a mystic lake. _

_ “Lily!” A harsh whisper stabs through the hedge from the other side, making the woman flinch her gaze upward from the small bouquet of pink roses she’s been gathering in her lap. When the breath comes again, her red lips spread into a pleasant smile and her shockingly-green eyes glimmer. _

_ “James?” She whispers, her voice ringing out from within the silver pool and reverberating throughout the room around me. “Is that you, Monsieur Potter?” _

_ To answer her, a hand bursts through the bush, offering her a handful of wildflowers, then closely followed by a man’s smiling face emerging from between the branches. _

_ He has the tanned face of a groundskeeper--it makes the woman’s skin seem even more unnaturally pale--, a mass of unruly black hair that hosts stray twigs and leaves and petals, and cracked spectacles set askew upon his straight nose. He is made more even handsome by mischievous dimples marking his strong cheeks as he smiles a cheeky grin after the red-haired bride cuffs his ear. _

_ “James, you devil!” She hisses, but retains a smile and sneaks him a quick kiss once she’s sure no one is watching them. _

_ “So... ” His brown eyes flicker up and down to examine the dress, his face suddenly taking on a look of defeat. “How does it feel being addressed as ‘your Grace’ now?” _

_ The Duchess’s expression falters as well as she wheezes a heavy, though dainty, sigh. “Dreadful… But I suppose I’ve no choice in the matter at this point. Father was in need of more land, and Mother loves my sister far too much to marry her off at such a young age…” _

_ Dropping the bouquet of wildflowers and weeds, the Gardener braces his large hands, both marked by white, puckering scars from years of taming roses, on either side of her face. “Give me some time, Lily… Give me time to find a way where we can run away from this place,  _ together _ ,” he presses a kiss between her stunning eyes before reiterating with a firm tone, “Together.” _

_ Her smile beams with hope when she returns the kiss into his calloused palms. “Together,” she affirms. _

_ The thunderous howls of hundreds of hounds and galloping horses fill the gardens, and both the Duchess and Gardener adopt a frightened raise of their brows. _

_ The Duchess resumes plucking her roses, and the Gardener’s face recedes back into the green shadow of the bush, brushing himself free of debris, and returning to his fellow gardeners before their docile tryst could be discovered. _

_ Upon the back of a black Clydesdale with several hounds and hunters in tow, a man in a blood-red hunting coat, thick wool breeches and stockings underneath newly polished boots, and a tricorn decorated with golden feathers boasts a wide, proud smile as his steed trots towards kneeling the Duchess. _

_ “Well, if it isn’t my darling bride!” The man--a Duke--cheers, as if he wished to test such a phrase on his tongue, as he slides off his horse and approaches the Duchess with open arms. I’m almost intimidated at how dauntingly handsome this newcomer is with his strong face, proudly arched, dignified nose, and boy-ish lips quirked into an arrogant smile that's affections are yet to be denied by a woman. His shaggy brown hair possesses a golden sheen underneath the sunlight that’s similar to the honey-colored flecks in his hazel eyes. _

_ When the Duchess rises after dipping herself in a low bow, she smiles, but it’s not difficult to see how forced it is when he pulls her in for an ardent kiss. _

_ “What prizes did your hunt provide you with, your Grace?” She asks once he finally releases her in order to run a gloved hand over his black steed’s powerful neck and across the crossbow hanging limp and unarmed from the saddle. _

_ A muffled snap of his fingers signals for the rest of the hunters to come to him in order to display their impressive catches slung across their laps: several foxes and boar, and a single stag with impressive antlers. _

_ The Duke smirks and grabs an antler, giving the stag’s head a firm shake. “This one will look rather handsome in the dining hall, I reckon,” His eyes brighten and brows raise with a new thought. “Oh! Or perhaps the master bedroom… mounted high over our bed, watching over us...” He purrs. _

_ The Duchess strains another smile, “If that’s what you desire--” _

_ She yelps when the Duke swiftly ducks and lifts her in his arms as if it’s their wedding night once more. “I believe it is  _ you _ that I desire,  _ mon amour _.” He snarls in a tone that suddenly makes me topple away from the pool of memories with a harsh gasp. _

_ The pool shimmers, distorting the image as the Duke shoves past his fellow hunters to bring his Duchess into the castle, before finally fading into the blinding shade of silver when it shows the Gardener peeking from around the hedges covered in roses with determination blazing in his brown eyes. _

_ I remain frozen on the ground, panting heavily as unseen lips continue to whisper my name, “Save us, Hermoine… Save ussss…” _

_ The Duke’s voice, his snarling baritone that rolls from the darkest depths of his throat, is one I’m familiar with…  _

_ The Duke’s voice is that of the Beast’s. _


	8. Seven - La Bibliothѐque

A breakfast of melted chocolate and blueberry scones, a refreshing walk through the castle, and no Beast to intrude upon my peace combine to create the best morning I’m yet to have in this place.

During yet another tentative search for any new hallways or doors or perhaps even the pool of memories from my dream, I’ve begun to memorize the labyrinthine hallways, differentiating them from one another based on the poses of certain statues or the manners in which paintings have been torn.

The second floor’s east wing--containing portraits sporting diagonal slashes across their faces--has an infestation of purple fairies in the west wing bedrooms… the entire third floor is just bedrooms, save for a whole room tucked behind a decrepit statue Eros--missing his beautiful face and a wing--that must have been dedicated to a woman’s wardrobe at some point… 

But then, in the depths of the first floor, I come across a high, golden doorway with roses growing around its frame that I’m rather astonished that I had missed on my first explorations of the castle.

As I’ve grown to expect from my time here, the doors gleefully open upon my approach, the squeak of their hinges squealing out like childrens’ laughter, and I feel as though I might die right where I stand upon what I see.

It’s a library! A massive one, at that--one that seems to extend all the way up to the heavens!

The walls, ceiling, and even the panes between the windows are made of glass tainted the innocent color of fresh spring grass, as if this room was originally intended to be a greenhouse, and the bookshelves, being so fantastically tall that they require three stories of ladders, balconies, and stairways--stairways!--, are carved from stark-white wood that make pink roses filled with whispering fairies growing along the shelves and over the leather-bound treasures they hold seem to glow with the same ethereal heartbeat as the Beast’s beloved roses.

Laughter--a combination of my own and the fairies’--twinkles in the air as I run between the towering shelves, only pausing in order to gawk at the hundreds of thousands of books just waiting to be opened and to have their contents spilled forth.

Where am I to even begin? Which book shall I read first? The Gothic romances of Ann Radcliffe? Maybe the philosophical works of Montesquieu? Ooh, or perhaps the more satirical prose of Henry Fielding? Or try something completely new? Gah! Too many decisions! How am I expected to make one?

And where am I to roost while I read? It’s too great of a distance between here and my bedroom to constantly make the journey back and forth for a new book, so surely there must be a comfortable nook that’ll be a suitable replacement for my tree branches back home.

Conveniently, in the library’s very center where all the shelves originate from like the roots of a great tree is a collection of golden furniture--plush, over-stuffed love seats and wing-backed armchairs--lay sprawled around a series of glass candelabras

Whatever excitement brightening my day is abruptly darkened when I see the Beast’s horrible form filling the entirety of a sagging armchair, his black cloak pooling around him like a lake of bottomless shadow.

His legs are crossed in a rather dainty manner, and an open book lies open in his talons.

When I peer hard enough, I see he’s reading  _ Robinson Crusoe _ .

For a brief moment, I’m stunned at how… human the Beast appears when assuming such a simple form. The sun softens his harsh features and the sharp protrusion of his fangs, almost making him resemble the noble-faced, handsome Duke that appeared to me in my dream, though he is nowhere near as handsome… I only said he appeared more human, not handsome. 

His wig--it’s a black, regally curled one this time--makes him appear younger by two decades, though I’m wondering what his actual hair looks like, or if the wig just hides a crest of greasy feathers.

He smells faintly of night air and damp pines when I cautiously lower myself into the love seat across from him. The scales lining the dark, sagging skin underneath his eyes and along his gaunt cheeks glimmer like pure shards of obsidian in contrast to his silky pale skin. On the very tip of his hooked nose he wears spectacles, though I’m certain that, much like the feathered hat, it’s something just for show rather than to help him read.

“ _ Robinson Crusoe _ ?” I question, suppressing my voice’s desire to quiver.

The Beast slowly nods when he turns a page, and the tip of his tail flickers ever so slightly. “I rather enjoy these adventure stories. They help distract me from all of,” without looking up, he waves a claw as if he gestures to the entirety of the castle and himself, “this.”

I nod in comprehension, understanding a book’s extraordinary power of transporting a reader to a different place and a different time, practically transforming them into a new person. “I personally have a fondness for nonfiction works,” I blurt, and notice the Beast glance at me over the golden rims of his spectacles, “Ever since I was a girl I would try to sneak encyclopedias from my father’s study, reading them until the early hours of the morning.” I smile at the faint memories, and can even feel the phantom sensation of a heavy, leather-bound weighing heavy in my lap while I’d pour over pages detailing whaling in the Pacific.

“Ah…” After a moment, he snaps the book closed with a satisfying  _ slap _ and he looks at me with a glimmer in his dour eyes. “So, do you like it?” He whispers, taking a moment to glance at the bookshelves.

I can’t resist a smile when my eyes dance across the beautiful room surrounding us and the bookshelves towering overhead like great sequoias. “Oh, it’s absolutely beautiful! I never knew a place could be this… wondrous...” I breathe and grip a handful of my pink skirts in a vain attempt to contain my emotions. A small part of me screams, trying to shake sensibility into me that this could be an attempt to further woo me and persuade me to accept last night’s marriage proposal, but I ignore it. I’m sensible enough to appreciate a library as a gift while also continuing to refuse a proposal. Regardless of what my mind is telling me, I manage to whisper a soft, “Thank you, Beast.”

“You’re welcome, mademoiselle.” Nodding, his snarl softens into a slight, relieved smile. “Well, I believe I shall leave you to enjoy your gifts,” He grunts when he heaves his crooked form out of the chair, then does his habitual bow. “I shall see you at dinner.”

But before he can wander too far from my reach, I shock myself when I suddenly grab his sleeve. “W-Wait… have a seat, please. I...I am rather enjoying your company.” But am I? Or is loneliness finally striking me down and making me desperate for any sort of company, even the company of a monster? “I’m growing rather tired of having only the companionship of animals and roses and chattering fairies.”

When he looks down at me, his expression is one that is completely new to me: disbelief. His hairless brows are furrowed, deepening the crease between them, and his jaws slack, further exposing his serrated fangs. “You...wish for me to stay?” He sounds just as astonished as I.

“Yes, please,” I nod, then grab his book from his chair and hold it up towards him. “I’d love to listen to you read whilst I browse.” I hate to admit it, but his baritone growl is rather hypnotizing… How could such a gentle voice have once belonged to such a crass, sardonic man?

Hesitant, he slowly takes the book and lowers himself back into his chair as I rise.

As I move to begin perusing the first level of the shelf closest to us, he begins with, “I was born at York, in England, on the First of March, 1632...”


	9. Eight - La Biche

And thus is how the following days--or have they already begun to bleed into weeks? Months, perhaps?--are continued.

The Beast and I spend most of our days together in the library reading, either to each other or to ourselves. Whenever we aren’t reading, we stroll the gardens where the Beast describes how he cares for the roses, even allowing--though he seemed rather reluctant--me to help him pluck off any dying blooms. There’s a sense of joy I’m unable to describe upon dirtying my hands and skirts with earth, burying my fingers in between roots, and the scent of damp ground kissing my nose.

“Ah!  _ Gently _ , you insufferable barbarian!” He’d hiss and lightly smack my hands like a mother scolding a child if I picked at a dying rose a little too roughly and tore away some of its living companions along with it.

“I got it, I got it! Sorry!” I’d seethe as we’d exchange a platonic glare. “My hands are bred for roughened vegetable gardens, not dainty flowers.” (My roses back home seemed to thrive based on pure luck rather than my own hand, and I begin to wonder if Papa has been tending to them since I’ve been gone.)

“Well, this is no lowly vegetable garden, mademoiselle. This is something far more prestigious that requires gentle, loving hands.” He’d scold and shake his head with a clicking of his tongue.

Sometimes, there are days where we just lay in the garden’s grass, either enjoying each other’s presence or conversing about minute things like my old life in Paris and how the Beast desires to explore the world beyond the castle’s grounds.

As the days wear on and as I spend most of my time at the Beast’s side, I’ve come to discover that underneath the Beast’s grotesque darkness, there lies a wealth of rather enviable intelligence and sentimental tenderness. And to my surprise--or is it horror?--I find myself losing any remaining fear and disgust I’ve initially felt towards this creature, and instead valuing him as a close companion.

Though, every night, the Beast continues to ask a single question I’ve grown to loathe...

No matter what activity we may have been doing that day, no matter how platonic we were, at the end of dinner, he’d approach me, drop onto one knee, and say five words I’ve grown all too morbidly accustomed to: “Mademoiselle, will you marry me?”

And every night, my answer has remained the same: “No, my dear Beast, I cannot marry you.”

With that answer, demurely, he’d bid me a good-night with a saddened glance darkening his eyes and sagging his already ugly features, and he’d leave me to my pudding and tea. 

There are some nights where I swear I’ve heard a strange, melancholy sound floating through the castle; a pitiful, howling wail of a wounded animal that nearly brings me to tears when I imagine the broken sound emerging from within the depths of the Beast’s crumpled, weeping form… 

As the days wear on, it becomes more painful to turn down his proposal. I find myself hesitating to refuse him, though it’s an action that comes from a place of pity rather than genuine affections. I only value his friendship, and I’m afraid I’ll never be able to love the Beast the way he wishes I could…

#

Puffy clouds of white lazily float across a once-blue sky that’s now painted with the lush, romantic purple, orange, and golden hues of twilight. The lacerations of golden strewn across the multi-colored sea bear resemblance to the strings of pearls the fairies in my room laced through the unholy bushiness of my hair that matched the honey-yellow shade of my silky day gown. I’m rather disappointed--and confused--about the Beast’s absence today, as I’ve been rather eager to show him my dresses everyday, with, I think, hopes that he’d be impressed with whatever beauty the fairies’--or Beast’s?--dresses present. 

Instead, I spent my day reading  _ Romeo and Juliet _ , wishing for the Beast’s velvety baritone to read it aloud with his tone tainted with dissatisfaction at my choice of book. I wished to hear him pause every other page to voice his disapproval of the rather foolish romance while forcing a harsh, exaggerated gag that’d stretch his features and expose his mouthful of black gums and yellowed teeth. The imaginary scenario raises a laugh out of me in order to accompany my involuntary smile.

Nearby, the red roan mare trots to and fro, stamping her golden hooves and bucking her head with an excited whinny when the white hair bounds around her in excited, playful circles. The two ginger-feathered magpies circle around the mare’s head, pecking at her ears and mane, in a vain attempt to join in whatever game the mare and hare are playing.

Across the courtyard, near the walls sporting some spots of dying sun, Crookshanks and his other companions (the ones ranging from the two wolves to the scowling tabby) stare at me with the lazy eyes of creatures drunken by the sun’s warmth.

The animals seem far more happy and relaxed whenever the Beast is gone.

“I thought you would be dining already, mademoiselle,” The Beast almost seems to appear out of nowhere, having stepped out from behind the birch-like bush of his beloved glowing roses. Rather than a plumed hat or glasses being held as decoration in his hand, he now strides with a walking cane that his tail occasionally curls around like a thin, feathered snake. “It’s nearly seven-thirty.”

I shrug and allow one hand to embrace the crook of the elbow he offered while another lightly traces over orange roses covering the entirety of a woman’s armless, faceless statue. “I wasn’t hungry. I preferred to entertain myself with an evening stroll when I saw you weren’t waiting to dine with me. My day has been rather dull without you, I must admit.”

He comes to a rather jarring stop when we come to a softly bubbling fountain with his voice a shocked whisper, “Is that so?” His tail violently lashes, almost as if on purpose, sending the ends of his black robes to float atop the fountain’s crystal-clear water, making me notice, for the first time, the lengths he goes to hide himself from potential reflective surfaces--or vice versa.

“But of course! Who else am I to annoy with my love for Shakespeare? Who is to chastise me for picking a dead rose at the wrong angle?”

He hums a low growl to himself and his scowl quirks into a soft smirk. “I suppose you do have a point, mademoiselle. You do me a great honor by being affected by my absence… a great honor, indeed.”

“So, then, what do you do to pass the day, Beast--”

A sudden flash of tawny-red bursts from a nearby rosebush, making the both of us jump. It’s a doe that pauses, though only for a brief moment, in order to study us with wide brown eyes. However, there’s a gleam of intelligence deep within her eyes that forces a rather sickening feeling to settle in my gut that makes me feel as though I’ve seen this doe before--or at least her eyes.

Soundlessly, she bounds into the depths of the garden and, presumably, back into her forested domain with a flick of her red-and-white tail.

I smile, watching her graceful departure. “How pretty! Is she another one of your pets?” I ask the Beast, but am met with a hot, unnerving silence that’s followed by a harsh, stifled growl. “Beast? Are you listening to me?”

I finally look at him and gasp a sharp, worried sound.

The Beast’s gaze, remaining plastered on where the doe disappeared back into the rosy brush, is glazed over by a darkness that makes me want to shrink away. A low, wheezing snarl curdles from the depths of his throat, that sounds so far from being human that it sends a shudder slithering across my shoulders. Even his posture becomes more bestial, his spine appearing to demand that he fall onto all fours and pursue the doe, but his violently shivering grip on his cane keeps him from doing so. 

My grip remains on his arm, and the muscles underneath my fingers tighten and shift, as though he’s preparing to launch himself into the hedges.

For the first time since my arrival to the castle, I see the Beast as a beast… an animal...

“Beast? Is something the matter?” I attempt to keep my voice a gentle coo, but it racks and I curse how it’s become a frightened whimper.

He grunts, though it sounds more like he’s coughing back a more animalistic sound, “F-Forgive me, mademoiselle…” his muscles loosen underneath my touch, and his head falls into his open palm as he shakes it with a quivering whisper, “Please… please, forgive me… It’s nothing…”

“Beast…” I coo again , tentatively bracing my fingers on his chin to coax his gaze up to face mine.

But he shakes his head enough to pull himself from my grasp and guides me into the castle with disturbing fervor. “Forgive me, mademoiselle… Let us have dinner...”


	10. Nine - Le Duc

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> TW: Mentions and descriptions of hunting, death of animals, and blood.

_ Once again, I find myself staggering through the decrepit hallway that’s unlike any I’ve come across in the castle. The curtains floating upon their invisible wind reach out to entangle me in their webs of white gossamer and silk, and there is a sense of urgency sharpening the edges of the disembodied whispers weaving themselves into my hair whilst they murmur my name. _

_ “Come to us, Hermoine… You must hurry, Hermoine!” Did they have such a harsh growl in my last dream? _

_ The silver pool of memories is practically frothing when I come across the mysterious room. Silver foam litters the watery mirror’s surface and covers the animals and roses sculpted into its frame. _

_ An image is already emerging from the silvery waves when I step to the water’s shore, and I suddenly feel as though I’ve fallen into the mirage, being swept into a flurry of golds, blacks, and whites until everything settles and I’m watching a scene in a grand dining hall--the very same dining hall where the Beast performs his nightly ritual of asking for my hand. _

_ An array of high lords and ladies, all dressed in various shades of white and gold with their wigs adorned by expensive ribbons, are seated at a table overflowing with a rather lavish collection of wines, cheeses, and meats. Within the reflective depths of the table’s black surface, I notice something peculiar: rather than mirror reflections of the nobles, there are reflections of a myriad of animals, all ranging from cats, dogs, birds, and horses. But I feel sickened when I recognize some of these noble beasts… _

_ A tired-looking man with light pink scars puckered along his hollowed cheeks and lips bears the reflection of the scarred wolf, while the woman to his left wearing a high-set wig dyed the same light shade of pink as her somewhat tomboy-ish dress reflects the white she-wolf… An older woman with an aging face kept tight in a disapproving expression, and a modest gown the color of spring grass reflects Crookshank’s dear silver tabby… _

_ I don’t have much of a chance to examine the rest of the nobles and their animal counterparts mirrored upon the table, as the Duke and Duchess--he wears a familiar black coat with many lace ruffles stuffing his lapel like a lion’s mane while she still wears the wedding gown from my first vision--stand when he clears his throat in a rather obnoxious manner. _

_ Underneath the soft light from the fireplace and myriad of candelabras, I can faintly see the Beast within the Duke’s features, such as in his slightly hooked nose and the manner in which his lips quirk into the slightest grin. _

_ He finally speaks with his trademark smirk and the deep voice that disappoints me to not have it come from the Beast’s lips, “As some of you may not know as to why I’ve decided to throw this rather quaint soirée,” he pauses, though just enough to garner the attention of his court, “My dear Lily is to bear me a son!” He beams down at the Duchess, who is forcing the smile that contorts her ruby-red lips. The entrancing color of her lips and the blush bringing a hint of life to her otherwise lifelessly pale cheeks are the same as her scarlet hair, which is twisted and sculpted into a high coiffure that’s held in place by pearls that, like the Duke’s brownish hair, reflect a radiant gold underneath the firelight. _

_ For several moments there is no applause, but rather anxious murmurs and a concerned glare from the older, silver tabby woman, but such cheer does follow once the Duke glares upon his court, almost as if he’s a child demanding praise for performing a minuscule action like making his bed without having to be told. _

_ “A son!” The Duke declares with a proud smile, though not the smile of a father. It’s the smile of a hunter gazing upon his new hunting coat made from a prized hind’s golden pelt. “Another boy to carry on the Snape title!” _

_ There’s a forced feeling of celebration tainting the air as the wine and cheese tasting continues. Conversations are held in hushed tones, accompanied by the subtle clinking of silverware. _

_ A small handful of servants--I assume all of them must be family because all of them share the same shocking heads of red hair and long bodies with gangling limbs--come to offer more wine and bring out new assortments of cheeses. In the table’s reflection, the older man and woman that I assume to be the parents reflect two red weasels, a young man close to my age a stout terrier, a set of twins with a glint of tamed mischief in their green eyes harbor images of the two ginger-winged magpies, while the youngest servant--a girl that exchanges occasional shy glances with a pale-faced, platinum blond girl dressed in an eccentric combination of purple silks and yellow ribbons--reflects the red roan mare. _

_ Everything falls silent when the Duchess suddenly rises, then everyone follows suit, though more out of courtesy that’s expected of a Duke’s court, I assume. She whispers something softly into the Duke’s cheek before leaving the dining room an elegant series of the swishing of her long, white dress (she still retains her swan-like figure from my previous dream). _

_ “Just feeling ill, let us not stop the fun,” The Duke quickly says, though his tone is dismissive, and he immediately resumes whatever conversation he was holding with a man seated beside the scarred wolf-man with a crooked wig failing to hide a head of shaggy back hair and an overall unkempt appearance. In the ragged man’s wine glass, he reflects an image of the great black dog I’ve seen accompany the wolves all moments of the day. _

_ I don’t have time to prepare myself before the scene shifts, once being a still image before becoming a rabid vortex of more blacks and golds that now settle into a new setting: a master bedroom that looks very much like my own, only the sheets of the plush bed are scarlet rather than pink and there are no roses or fairies infesting every inch of the windows and bedposts. _

_ The room is empty, but not for long, as the Duke enters with a wide grin and the harsh clicking of his high-stacked boots. But once he, too, sees that the room is empty, his smirk falls. _

_ “Lily?” He grunts, his eyes flickering from the bed, to the darkened entrance to the washroom, and then to the open window leading to a stone balcony. “Lily?” He rushes to the balcony and gazes over the rose garden, this time with genuine concern glazing over his golden-hazel eyes.  _

_ To me, the garden looks so alien being bathed in darkness without the glowing heartbeat of the Beast’s roses. _

_ A sound of frantic whispering emanating from the darkness somewhere underneath the balcony draws not only my attention, but the Duke’s as well. _

_ Not too far below, the Duchess stands, still in her grand white dress worn at dinner, in the arms of the Gardener, his hair still a tangle of black tufts and stray twigs. An anxious, radiant excitement brightens their faces, making the Duchess smile with not just her mouth, but her brilliant emerald-colored eyes as well. _

_ The Gardener braces a hand against her stomach, still appearing flat thanks to a corset, and his brown eyes glimmer with bewildered awe. _

_ The two continue to whisper, their words being indiscernible, as the Gardener removes a leather pouch from his waistband before both he and the Duchess eat whatever contents were inside. And then, underneath the silvery light of the full moon, something amazing happens that would have left me more awe-struck if I weren’t living in a castle ruled by magic.  _

_ The Duchess and Gardener’s shapes begin to morph. Their legs lengthen, their noses become elegant muzzles, and fur blankets their skin until a great stag black as night and an elegant hind red as the most beautiful rose remain in their place. _

_ Immediately, they canter off into the garden and towards the forest, leaving their ruined clothes behind them in a pile of tattered cloth, with grace I’ve never seen in such animals. _

_ I am not stunned to see such a magical transformation occur, but the Duke seems rather stupefied into a hot, quivering silence. _

_ Jealousy and fury of his trophy being stolen pulsates from the Duke to such a degree that I feel as though I may be poisoned by such powerful emotions. His hands, covered in white satin gloves, tighten into harsh, quivering fists and the anger that contorts his face into one that I’ve only ever seen one time before. The memory of the Beast doing everything within his power to restrain himself from acting on his animalistic urges sends a small shock of horror crawl down my spine again. _

_ Without another word, but with heavy steps, the Duke sharply turns and leaves the room with heated haste. With the aura he gives off, I know that both of us have come to the realization that the heir to the Snape title is, clearly, not his own, and he is hungry for revenge. _

#

I awake with a gasp, though I don’t even know if I have truly awoken.

I tumble out of bed and onto the cold floor, Crookshanks grumbling upon being so rudely awoken, as my brain continues to be clouded by visions. One of the many stacks of books that have begun to litter my chambers falls and sends several heavy volumes falling to the ground with dull, dead thuds.

I remain on the floor, gasping for breath as coldness seizes my body and images flash across my vision…

_ The Duke mounts his great black steed, his crossbow in hand, a look of pure, poisonous malice deforming his features… _

A few fairies sink their serrated fangs into my hand when I harshly grab a rose-covered bedpost in an attempt to gain my bearings, but I don’t feel the pain as my head continues to swim…

_ Thundering of hooves against the damp grass practically renders me deaf as the Duke pursues after the two deer, their pelts rendered silver underneath the moonlight… _

Fairies begin to buzz all around my head in frantic streaks of pink, some of them chirping in mild concern…

_ The breaths from the black steed and deer rise into the air in puffs of wet mist as the Duke raises his crossbow and aims for the stag’s powerful throat... _

Thunder rumbles from outside, and a blinding flash of light illuminates the room before it’s submerged in darkness once more…

_ When the Duke moves to fire the arrow, his steed rears onto its hind legs when it’s startled by a sudden flash of lightning, destroying his aim… _

Then, I cry a pained yelp and bring a hand to my chest when, at the exact moment the Duke’s arrow in my vision pierces the heart of the scarlet doe--the heart of his beloved Duchess--a horrific scream tears through the castle.

The horrific sound rises a hiss out of Crookshanks and he buries himself underneath the mountain of pillows, and even the fairies pestering me return to their floral shelters with high-pitched squeaks. I, myself, return to the shelter of my bed, pressing myself into the plush mattress as my heart continues to painfully pound against my lungs and my blood turns to ice. 

This isn’t the bereaved wailing of the Beast… no, this is something far more foul and sinister.

The howling shrieks--now accompanied by a predatory, elk-like roar--continue for what seems like an eternity intermingle with the cries of the wounded doe from my dream that resonates deep within my ears before suddenly stopping, leaving a deadly silence hanging over the castle like a toxic odor.

Crookshanks howls a hiss--as well as the fairies--when I rise from the bed and tip-toe to my wall of windows, hoping to catch a glimpse of whatever made such a horrible sound. As I approach a patch of cold glass that's bare of roses, I pray that whatever slaughter had occurred would have been somewhere in the forest, or even some unholy corner of the castle’s courtyard, so that I won’t have any potential of seeing such carnage.

A sudden rush of frightened breath clouds the glass once a figure drenched in crimson emerges from where the forest meets the edge of the castle gardens. To my dismay, it’s the Beast, though I’m only able to identify him by the long, black train of his robes slithering behind him on the ground because what I see is not a friend I’ve learned to care for, but rather the grotesque monster my Papa’s words made me fear. The creature slowly lumbering through the yard below my window holds curved talons dripping with blood before a face sagging with shame. Rather than his fine black coats and lace ruffles and silk cravats, he wears only a white shirt--though it’s stained by obnoxious scarlet stains--with flowing sleeves that hang limply at his sides like broken wings. He no longer wears any of his long wigs or a hat, revealing a head of lank hair that frames his sickly-pale face and brushes past his shoulders in greasy tendrils of black. He walks with a staggered, limping gait as he continues to stare at his bloodied claws with hollow eyes, and his lips move with ragged wheezes when blood drips from his blackened lips.

The image eventually makes me retreat back into the protection of my bed and fairies, where I bury myself underneath the covers with a small gasp. Though I should be afraid of the blood that stains my dear Beast’s body, the only thing that remains imprinted within my brain is the look of horror and shame distorting his face.

Soon, the silence is interrupted by the nightly wails I’ve grown all too accustomed to, and whatever fear held in my heart shatters into a familiar feeling of pity.

“Oh, Beast…” I whimper softly into my pillow, knowing my body will refuse to let me fall back into the merciful embrace of sleep.


	11. Ten - Le Accord

“Something ails you, mademoiselle,” the Beast remarks, sharply drawing my gaze from one of the library’s many, many windows exposing a sky painted with the lazy blue hues of late afternoon, and lowers a book with rather effeminate, scarlet lettering scrawled across its mustard-yellow cover. His face is powdered, making him even more pale than usual, and his brows knit together in concern. “I implore you to tell me what’s the matter.”

From all the time we’ve spent in the library, our favorite reading spots (his is the very same large, wing-backed armchair I found him in when I first found the library while mine is a plush red love seat that’s wide enough to comfortably house a dress) have gradually inched closer together, and now they’re close enough so that the Beast can reach across the space between us separated by a squat table to rest a hand on my knee.

Despite my leg being masked underneath layers of petticoats, his worried touch still burns my skin. Very rarely does he ever touch me… the only time we ever come into any sort of physical contact with each other is when I, gingerly, take his arm during our walks. Such a sensation feels alien, and my mind struggles to decide if it burns because of disgust from the affirmation of what ungodly deeds I’ve deduced those claws perform at night or if it’s some unnamed, foreign emotion beginning to clutch my heart and squeeze with unforgiving fingers.

But regardless of my feelings towards his touch, I try my best to plaster on a false smile. The shock of seeing my Beast bathed in an innocent’s blood led to a fretful sleep stuffed with horrific nightmares… The horrific images of my throat being sliced by feral talons or Papa’s innards being held within bestial jaws still curses my memory and makes it difficult to kindly look upon the Beast. 

“It’s nothing, my dear Beast. Just a rough night’s sleep is all.”  _ I’m scared… No, not of  _ you _ , Beast! I just wish to see my Papa again, just to see that he’s safe... _

His hairless brows come closer together, though only slightly, then his black gaze falls with a comprehensive nod. 

_ Damn! He’s aware of my fib. _

“Come,” With unnecessary assistance from his walking cane, he claps his book shut with a small ‘tsk’ sound and stands, offering his arm to me. “I think I have an idea on how we can cheer you up.”

#

A picnic. The Beast’s attempt to lift my spirits--or to bribe whatever truth he seeks out of me--with a picnic. No matter his intentions, it does manage to bring a  _ tiny _ smile to my lips, and a small, proud smirk to the Beast’s.

It’s a rather quaint set-up that must have been birthed out of midair by the castle’s magic, with a small, yet still somehow grand, selection of cheeses, sausages, fruits, and fresh tarts sprawled across a white blanket. It’s in a spot protected from the waning sun by the shade of the Beast’s glowing roses.

“How sweet,” I comment, allowing myself to smile once more, but just to satisfy the Beast’s ego, when we plop ourselves around awaiting glasses of wine that filled themselves upon our arrival. “I haven’t had a picnic since I was a little girl!” It is, admittedly, nostalgic to see such a display. But it no sooner saddens me when it only reignites memories of Papa and I trying to cheer ourselves up with cheap picnics when bankruptcy first banished us into the French countryside.

“Anything to bring a smile to your face, of course, mademoiselle,” he says, softly, bowing his head as he shifts himself into a comfortable cross-legged position beside me. He then moves to unpack a wicker basket decorated by periwinkle-blue bows and white ribbons on its handle, removing pieces of silverware and porcelain china.

Today, he wears no extravagant jacket or laces, but rather a simple, yet something that seems so out of character for him to wear, waistcoat the color of newly grown dandelions and a white shirt with wing-like sleeves that makes me ill when I remember his attire for last night’s slaughter. Even his wig seems rather simple, being a typical powdered grey one tied back against the nape of his neck with a silken ribbon. With his simple attire and desperation to bring a smile to my face, he, for the first time to me, seems more like the servant he promised to be the first night I was here--

A servant!

The Beast, himself, declared he is to be my humble servant, fulfilling my every wish for my happiness…

“Beast?” I ask when he sets a small platter filled with a generous helping of grapes and a white cheese before me.

“Yes? What is it?” He barely looks up at me as he serves himself.

Before I speak again, I dampen my throat with a single grape that bursts with a lovely, sweet flavor, “‘Tis your duty to fulfill my every wish, right?” I murmur past the grape’s tart sweetness in a slow, apprehensive tone.

His lips curve with a hopeful grin and nods, his tail wrapped around a wine bottle beginning to anxiously flicker like a dog’s tail. “Yes, of course! You  _ are _ the mistress of this domain! Tell me, mademoiselle, what is it your heart desires?”

There’s a happy eagerness I’ve never seen in his dark eyes that ought to be contagious and make me feel the very same, but I look away with the shame of knowing how painful the request brewing behind my lips will be for him. I study my hands quivering into small fists in my lap with pursed lips, and finally gather the courage to whisper, “Can… Can you let me go, to let me visit my father?”

Immediately, his face falls and a sickened shadow shields his eyes. In the several moments of stunned silence between us, his mouth opens, as if he is to speak, but then clamps back shut, then his eyes wander, searching for a proper answer. “Oh, Hermoine…” He whispers, sending a violent chill rocking through my whole body. I almost wish he could say my name again with his deep, baritone growl... “What you ask of me is far too great… I-I can’t let you go…”

“Beast, please! You asked what has been ailing me, and now I am telling you: I’m worried for my father and miss him terribly! If I could only see him for a single day, to see if he is alright, I shall remain here for the rest of my days and be happy!”

“If I let you go…” His breath grows heavy and his hands close into fists when he casts his gaze downward. “Would you marry me?”

I cry a sharp, wailing sound and turn away from him. “Would you quit torturing me with that question? I value your companionship, and I only wish to remain friends! Why must you ask more of me?”

Almost as if out of shame, the Beast drops his face into his talons with a muffled snarl. “Forgive me, mademoiselle… but what you ask of me is serious…”

Air leaves his mouth in short, ragged gasps, as if threatening that he, too, would break down into a sob. 

We are enveloped in the quiet of the garden. The birdsong of the surrounding wood ceases to play, stuffing everything into an uncomfortable, dead silence.

“Beast…” Pity taints my voice when I reach to place both hands on either side of his face, coaxing his head up so our gazes can meet. He stares listlessly at me with eyes that seem so dull but yet filled with such tender, sad vulnerability I’ve never seen in a man before. I lightly trace my thumb over the small feathers underneath his eyes, and release a shaking breath when he ever so slightly presses his ugly cheek into my palm. “My dear, sweet Beast… you are my closest friend, and I care for you too much to ever harm you… but please, all I ask is some time to visit my father…”

Tears prick my eyes, and glitter within the black depths of the Beast’s, when he takes my hands into his hideous talons with a benevolence that makes me gasp, then presses my knuckles to his dark lips and whispers my name into my flesh, “Oh, my dear Hermoine… I … I require time to think on your request…” He then stands, begrudgingly releasing my knuckles, his appearance suddenly seeming more disheveled as his face sags with grim sadness.

He bids me no farewell, not even a nod or bow, before slowly lumbering into the garden and towards the castle in a slow, stumbling gait as light grey overcast begins to slaughter the sunlight.

I stare after him with a heavy heart, now ashamed knowing now that my request has, indeed, proven to be far too painful for my friend. When I bring my fingers to my lips in order to stifle a cry, the phantom sensation of the Beast’s kind, sad grasp burns through my skin and into the depths of my very bones.


	12. Eleven - Le Retour

This morning, a grim darkness weighs heavy over the castle, nearly suffocating me when I awake from a--mercifully--dreamless sleep.

Crookshanks is nowhere to be found. The fire within the my lion-faced fireplace doesn’t ignite in order to warm the marble floors underneath my feet. The fairies are unnervingly quiet as they dress me in a light grey morning dress with pink roses embroidered all along its skirts and high neckline. They use a variety of pins and a generously feathered hat to hold my bushy curls in place before silently returning to their floral homes.

When I go down to breakfast, I come to an abrupt pause upon seeing the Beast pacing before the dim fireplace like a caged lion, his black cloak trailing behind him like an immense shadow.

The castle’s magic seems hushed today, because it gifts the candles and chandeliers with only a dying glow when I approach the naked table, capturing the Beast’s attention.

“Ah, good morning, mademoiselle,” He stiffly bows at his hips with his claws fastened behind his back. Despite his kind words, ice clings to every syllable and skewers his features so that he looks even more embittered than usual.

I’ve never seen the Beast look so somber and cold, it almost frightens me. Everything matches his bottomless, ice-cold black eyes: his pleated frock coat, his cloak, his cravat, his lace cuffs, his boots, even the wrinkled skin underneath his eyes. He looks as though he’s in mourning--is he…? He wears no wig, exposing his lank, greasy, and rather repulsive hair to the weak firelight.

“Good morning, dear Beast.” I lower myself into a curtsy, and smile, hoping my friend would return the same gesture. But he does no such thing. “Is something wrong?” Has my request truly hurt him so badly that it turned him back into the embittered, hateful Duke he had once been in some past life?

He crosses the room in long, intimidating strides, and now that he’s closer, I see how red his eyes are, as though he spent most, if not all, night . A bitter stench oozes from his being as he towers over me, and I swallow the bitter, anxious bile rising in my throat.

“One week.” He says suddenly, and holds up a single unclothed talon.

Excitement blazes deep within my chest and freezes my veins, robbing me of my breath, when I realize the potential meaning lying behind his words. “A week?”

“One week to visit your father.  _ But _ ,” Any and every sense of elation I hold violently stills because of that single word. 

Whatever mean demeanor that had possessed him suddenly shatters when he sighs, his whole form sagging and his face made even more hideous by a grim, somber expression. His talons shiver slightly when he takes my hands and squeezes them. “But… just a week, and not a day more… Take the red mare. Whisper to her where you desire to go, and she will take you there…” His hold tightens as his face skewers with melancholic pain. Rather than his usual rich, baritone growl that’d caress my ears like the softest velvet, his husky whisper shudders, threatening to devolve into his nightly, bestial wails. “Just a week, Hermoine...”

Breathless thrill courses through me once more, this time with a more electrifying ferocity.

I get to see my Papa! I will be able to embrace him, bathe him in kisses, and shower him with how ever many ‘I love yous’ were required to acquire his forgiveness for abandoning him. I get to love my Papa again!

I can’t help but smile up at the Beast. “Oh, Beast…” I whisper and frame his face with my own quivering fingers. His hair is borderline slimy to the touch and makes me want to grimace, but I don’t care. Underneath my fingertips, he stiffens, as if such contact stuns and pains him.

“Beast…” I repeat, my voice softer, when I brush a greasy strand obscuring his face so that I can see the sadness hollowing his dark eyes. I stand on the very tips of my toes so that I can place soft, chaste kisses on his feathered cheeks and the sharp end of his horribly hooked nose, then try to smile at seeing the absolute look of stunned terror that’s overtaken his ugly features as a wheezing gasp rushes from his lungs. “Thank you… I promise to return within a week, my friend…”

#

Whatever darkness infected the castle has spread into the forest and beyond. Dark clouds obscure the sun, there is no birdsong lilted by merriment, and the myriad of roses are drained of color, damning them into becoming lifeless, greying blooms.

The mare trods away from the castle, through the gardens, down the gravel path flanked by faceless statues, and past the tall iron gates, with a dogged gait and her head hanging low. Even Crookshanks, who was rather hesitant to leave the castle, has adopted a rather somber tone as he lays in a heavy, immobile mound of ginger fur upon my lap.

Despite the doleful air drifting through the forest like an invisible mist, I continue to beam with excitement and urge the mare to quicken her pace by digging my heels into her sides. “Come, now! Take me home!” I repeat again into the mare’s ear with such harsh fervor that I’m no longer a young woman but rather an impatient, brattish toddler. But why should I feel bad about being so eager to return home? Papa awaits me! Just the thought of merely catching a glimpse of his face or hearing his voice sends another anxious shock through the already harsh thrumming of my heart.

Far behind us, a distant, howling wail weighed heavy by pure misery shatters my excitement. I halt the mare so that I can gracefully cast a glance over my shoulder, towards the castle that’s beginning to be engulfed by the magic forest. My heart sinks upon how it’s become a greying husk of the grand palace that attempted to seduce me with its whimsy all those weeks ago. From within its depths, the Beast’s howl cries out, sounding even more pitiful than before… A tear threatens to slither down my cheek, and I attempt to suppress it by ripping my gaze away from the castle with pursed lips.

“I shall be back in a week, my dear Beast…” My fingers lightly trace over one of the many false roses embroidered into the fine lapel of the crimson traveling cloak the fairies presented to me. The kiss of the lace petals against my fingertips only remind me of the Beast’s lips against my knuckles, and I try to withhold yet another tear. “And not a day more.”

The ride through the woods is unnervingly quick and uneventful and, most of all, silent. There’s no whispering of wind between the pines, no buzzing of fairies, no cantering of hinds or centaurs, nothing. Everything is lifeless, and it urges me to make the mare go faster.

Unlike when I first traveled to the Beast’s castle, the horde of dying branches, twigs, and brambles don’t attempt to hinder the mare with their thorns. Instead, they almost seem to slither away from the path, allowing us to pass through without the threat of nettles tearing at skin and hair and hoof.

Before I even know it, the mare canters into the clearing, and I smile upon seeing the Granger cottage. It lays, quaintly and modestly, in the heart of the green glade with several white hens trotting about a small coop. My roses still seem alive, though their beds and my once-lush vegetable garden has been overtaken by a forest of weeds. Melancholy hasn’t seemed to have tainted this part of the forest. Yet.

The whole scene is lushly picturesque, bringing a smile to my face and aiding me in forgetting about the Beast and his enchanted gardens.

“Papa?” I call, my voice ringing out across the glen and between the pines in a sickeningly dull--nay,  _ lifeless _ \--echo. The mare brings me to the front porch, and I hastily drop from her saddle and hurry inside, my elation making me into a vehicle driven only by hyper-excitement. “Papa? Papa, I’m home!” Merriment hitches my voice into a shrill, happy cry as I trample up the porch stairs.

Where is Papa? Shouldn’t he be bursting forth from the door in order to sweep me up in his arms? Shouldn’t he be relieved upon the return of his daughter?

Where is he?

“Papa?” I ask in a more hushed tone when I push the front door open with a tentative hand. The door opens with a rusted, agonizing groan.

Everything inside the cottage is blanketed by a liberal covering of brown dust. Small, fairy-sized footprints mark the window sills and table and fireplace mantle, but the fairy infestation now invading the cottage’s interior is the least of my concerns.

“P-Papa? Are you here?” I cry when I wander further into the dining room, an ice-cold pit forming in my gut upon my father’s absence.

But then, I hear it. A faint, rasping breath. A breath barely clinging to life that resonates from the balcony that houses Papa and I’s beds. It’s the breath of a dying man.

“Oh, no, Papa!” I wail and tumble up to the balcony, then practically collapse onto the bed containing his withering, white figure. My fingers gingerly brush greasy tendrils of grey hair from his clammy forehead, and I remark at how… corpse-like he looks. His once-plump face has thinned into one that’s made unrecognizable by emaciation; his cheeks far more pronounced, and lips are thin, white, and cracked. He must have crawled into bed several days ago, praying that death would be merciful and take him. But now he lays here, still alive, as a husk of a man he used to be.

“Papa, please, wake up! I’m here, now!” With this exclamation and my hand brushing across an ice-cold cheek, his eyes flutter open, though just enough for me to see that they are no longer  _ his _ eyes. What were once brilliant brown, jovial spheres have been reduced to mere hollowed chunks of used coal. 

“H...Hermoine?” His tone and expression make him seem as if he’s looking upon a ghost, and he must believe he is seeing one because his expression becomes one of fear and denial. Perhaps I am more of an angel to him, given the expensive finery I wear. “ _ Non, c’est impossible _ … my Hermoine was taken from me… she rots in the belly of a monster now…”

“No, it’s me! I’m here! See?” His hand feels like a skeleton’s in mine when I take hold of it and press it to my lips, to prove a point that I am of tangible flesh and blood and warmth rather than a cruel mirage. “I’m here, Papa…” I smile slightly when he reaches his other hand to caress my cheek, a Herculean task on his part.

A weak grin softens the dying slackness of his lips after several long, cold moments of him gingerly touching my face, my hair, and crimson silk flowing from my shoulders. “Oh, Hermoine… you’re back…”

I lie in the bed beside him and finally embrace him, rejoicing in the fact that I can finally have a chance to be with my father. I’m grateful that our silent celebration erases the Beast’s insistent pleas that I return within a week, because I don’t wish to think of the Beast right now...

Right now, I just care about my father’s warmth, love, and being back in a place where I belong.


	13. Twelve- La Semaine

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for shorter chapter, and no Sneast.😭

The Beast’s requested week passes in a haze. It is not an unhappy one, though it’s a haze, nonetheless.

A majority of it is spent reviving Papa, pawning the clothes and jewelry I arrived from the castle with off for meats and vegetables intended for hearty stews that would sustain us until my vegetable garden could provide reliable produce again, and relaying him my own tales of the Beast and his enchanted castle. Despite my insistent claims of the Beast’s gentle nature and his unwavering kindness, Papa refused to accept my words as truth and banished any and all further discussions regarding beasts, magic, glowing roses, and animals with knowing eyes.

“Is it even possible for such a monster to have a heart?” Papa had asked one morning while I hung laundry on the line strung between the cottage and chicken coop.

“But, of course! He is rather frightening at first, I know, but underneath such a monstrous layer I’ve actually found that he is no more human than you and I, if not more so!” I remarked with a slight smile. “I know of many men that hide monsters underneath their skins, but the Beast is guilty of hiding only a man underneath his own. A man I’ve…” I paused to think about my words, to chew them behind pursed lips before they’d rush out in a flurry of nonsense. I wished to tell Papa how much I’ve grown to care for the Beast, but I didn’t want him getting the notion that we had somehow become an item--an abomination, in his eyes clouded by understandable prejudice. “I’ve come to appreciate his companionship. 

“In fact, I believe he suffers greatly… while he tries to remain a man, a part of him desires to be an animal, and both sides are constantly at war with each other,” my mind wandered back to how his feral, unseen war waned between man and beast when we saw that crimson hind, then to my haunting memory of catching an accidental glimpse of a midnight hunt’s grizzly aftermath, “sometimes, I pity him… is that cruel of me, Papa?” I looked at him, wrapped in a blanket, a cup of steaming tea braced in his elderly hands, and sitting on the steps of the porch, praying for an answer that would reassure me I was not as cruel as I believe myself to be.

To my relief, he shook his head, but his tone, colder than frost clinging to a shadowed stone, shattered such relief when he then said, “It is not cruel to pity an animal.”

As the days wore on, Papa’s words haunted my mind, at times making me nauseous. No books could transport me to another land and hide me, no amount of gardening could soothe the nerves making my fingers fumble with the already worn hems of my aprons, and no fairy Crookshanks caught brought me any sense of pride.

Is it truly cruel of me to see and pity the Beast as if he were nothing more than a tortured animal?

He had proven himself to be the most human man I’ve ever known, and yet I’m cruel enough to dehumanize him further and call him an animal.

What started off as a week made bright by the jovial reunion had transformed into a miserable onslaught of days that must have been fashioned by God just to torture me by thinking of the Beast.

While I tended the roses, the chore made me realize how much I craved the tender touch of the Beast’s talons, coaxing my fingers into the proper hand motions that were required to dead-head roses without damaging their stems… while I read--or attempted to--, I desired to hear him growl the words to me, to get lost into the bottomless void his growl often lulled me into… I yearned for his company, his elbow to embrace, while we walked the gardens… I wished to see his scowl turn into the soft smile that revealed his pointed teeth… I wanted to see how he used hats and spectacles and walking canes as mere props... I’ve even damned myself for the silent admission that I missed his nightly proposal...

I’ve just begun to miss the Beast…

A realization like that suddenly fills me with excitement for my week-long visit to be over, so that I can return to the castle and my dear Beast, as well the routine we have created and I’ve grown so used to.

The night before I was to return to the Beast, anticipation kept me from sleep, instead having me stare up at the ceiling with a stupid grin. _How am I to celebrate my return?_ _A dared embrace with the Beast? A finer dinner with him? Perhaps a late-night walk in the--no, no! Nothing at night!_

But something deep within the recesses of my mind dares to ask something that catches me by surprise:  _ Say yes to his proposal? _

“N-No!” I whisper aloud, startling Crookshanks lying upon my chest. “I can’t marry him… I… I don’t love him…”  _ Or do I? _

Do I dare say I love him?

No, I couldn’t… how could anyone love a beast?

_ But Beast isn’t a  _ beast _! How dare you think such a thing! _

However, that doesn’t bring any answer to my question…  _ Do I love him? _

Well, if I’m being honest with myself, perhaps… perhaps I’m in danger of  _ falling _ in love with him. If I already saw him as a companion, where is the harm in seeing him as a romantic one as well?

I felt comfortable around him… I didn’t have to restrain myself from indulging myself in my favored interest the way I was required to when around the men who desired to court me back in Paris. In fact, I found some pleasure that the Beast encouraged such interests, and even shared them with me. I was able to be myself around him and, I pray, he allowed himself to be, well, himself around me!

I settled further down into my bed and allowed a small smile to creep across my cheeks as I shifted my gaze from the cottage’s rafters and to the speckles of white splattered across an inky blue sky just outside the lightly frosted window. The gentle glimmer reminds me of the tenderness within the depths of Beast’s eyes as he’d garden or intently focus on a book; such resemblance, too makes me smile.

“I’ll be home tomorrow, my dear Beast…” I whispered into my pillow, though the excitement from my realization further keeps me from the embrace of sleep.

#

It seemed as though morning never would have come, and the moment the slightest hint of the pinkish hue of sunrise paints iself across the tops of the pines, I throw myself free of my blankets and attempt to dress myself as silently as possible.

I have no magical mannequin to gift me fantastical dresses, nor do I have any fairies to somehow tame my unholy mane, but the lack of such items doesn’t deter me from finding one of my better-looking dresses (a simple dress meant for a common girl with a brown skirt and white chemise) and hiding my bushy hair underneath one of the pink lace shawls I brought home with me from the castle.

Scrubbing thoroughly in the wash basin, I’m sure my face is rid of any stray stains of dirt or forest grime. I must be clean… I wish to look presentable to the Beast upon my return!

For the first time in, actually, ever, I’m actually caring about my appearance and how a man may perceive me! It is rather exhilarating, I must admit, and further broadens my face into a dopey smile.

In the small mirror above the basin, I observe Papa’s sleeping reflection while I attempt to run a brush through the tangled ends of my hair. He seems so peaceful while in sleep… but while he looks so demure, the early morning sun still somehow manages to make him seem more ancient than he actually is, making his grey hair a shocking shade of white, making his cheeks more sallow, making his eyes more deeply-set. He’s almost skeletal, if I must admit...

I almost pity neglecting to inform him that I am to return to the Beast… Something told me his heart couldn’t bear such news.

But is what I’m doing, leaving unannounced, any more or less cruel? Surely, it would kill him...

Gathering my skirts and holding my breath, I tentatively tip-toe down the loft’s stairs, praying that no boards would groan out a damning squeak alerting that’d Papa of my departure. I wince when such a cry rings out, though not from the aging stairs, but the door’s hinges when I slowly swing it open, allowing misty morning musk to creep inside and swell the stuffy cottage.

In my arms, Crookshanks growls a droning sound, almost like that of a man’s deep groan, when a tired “Hermoine?” moans from the loft.

I stand like a doe cornered by a wolf, my hand remaining, stupidly, on the opened door, when Papa tumbles out of bed and lumbers down the stairs, worry creasing his face.

“Where are you going?” The utter confusion in his voice is heavy and poisons my heart with bitter guilt.

“Back to the Beast. I promised I’d only be gone for a week,” My admission feels like I’ve confessed to manslaughter, and acidic bile bites the back of my throat.

He approaches me, his whole body quivering as he grabs my arm with the grip of a desperate, pleading man. “Hermoine! You cannot return to that-that  _ creature _ !”

“But I made a promise! I don’t ever wish to cause him harm, even if it may be something as minuscule as breaking a promise!”

A sudden fury blazes in his eyes that startles me. It reminds me of the fire that burned within the eyes of the Duke the night he discovered the blasphemous tryst between the Duchess and the Gardener. However, the fire Papa possesses isn’t the bestial, proprietary gleam of the Duke, but rather the anger of a father faced with the potential of the only thing he holds dear being taken from him, perhaps forever.

But I attempt to compose myself and straighten my posture, jutting my chin higher into the air in the same manner I’ve often seen the host’s of salons do when they intent of giving their opinions importance while deep in the throes of politics, “The Beast is my friend, and I made a promise. I intend on keeping it.”

Realizing that this is a battle he cannot win, he hangs his head with a sigh. “Fine… but can’t you extend your stay here by a few days? Another week perhaps? I can’t bear to see you leave yet…”

“But, Papa, I--”

“Just another week, Hermoine. That’s all I ask! Surely the Beast ought to understand?”

My lips part to plea and I glance over my shoulder at the red roan, golden-hoofed mare anxiously pacing within the makeshift paddock I constructed out of broken fence posts--clearly a thing meant to be temporary. The mare bleats a high whinny, bucks her head, and throws herself back into another round of pacing. Like myself, she must be eager to return to the castle. I pray she won’t share my heartbreak that we won’t be returning today.

I sigh and return my eyes to my father. “I suppose… another week wouldn’t hurt…”


	14. Thirteen - La Couverture

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This song helps best to set the mood: https://youtu.be/rKe_XOQGzHk
> 
> Anyways! This chapter took lots of inspo from Jean Cocteau's La Belle et La Bete as well as Juraj Herz's Panna a Netvor (The Virgin and the Monster)!
> 
> Enjoy.

Four days.

It’s been four days since Hermoine’s promised return--and she is yet to return. 

Four days made long by the poison of misery and betrayal.

Everything around Severus is dying: his roses, the fairies that inhabit them, even his court cursed into the figures of lowly animals. The only thing that even holds onto the semblance of life are his beloved Lily’s roses, but those are sustained by some other ethereal power even he could barely comprehend.

He, too, however, can feel his own death, with its cold, unforgiving fingers, fast-approaching.

As he forces himself through the now-decaying halls of his castle, he must brace a talon against the glass-like marble eroding underneath his touch just so that he doesn’t collapse into a pitiful heap of black robes onto the floor. He is determined to make it to Hermoine’s room… death won’t deter him from  _ this _ goal.

He is a foolish creature to have let her go… he should have known she’d never return.  _ Foolish,  _ foolish _ beast! So close to breaking the curse... _ the animal within his mind snarls, leading Severus to smack his palm against his temple with fevered frustration and a hateful growl. This bestial voice remains in the darkest corners of his subconscious during the day and is only meant to speak to him at night, controlling him like a puppet, forcing him to hunt for the virginal blood of innocent does while under the cover of night so that he can’t starve himself to death. It’s rather strange this voice comes around during the day to taunt him, but why should Severus care?

“I had to…” he seethes with a heavy wheeze, stumbling and then catching himself on a statue’s gracefully extended arm, “I… I can’t jail her here forever… I can’t force her to accept my damned proposal.”

_ But why? _ The serpentine hiss taunts him with a wispy, phantasmic cackle.  _ Is this your attempt at redeeming yourself? Perhaps making yourself into the fairy story hero by letting the poor damsel go? _

“Hush!” Severus snarls, clawing at the unseen voice despite knowing it’s all just a cruel figment of his imagination. “I let her go because I…” his eyes stare into the hallway ahead. All the statues made hideous by his own hand and the portraits of all the past dukes and duchesses that proudly carried the Snape and Prince names long before he did vandalized by his talons all those years ago now seem to glower at him with the same hateful, accusatory glances his animal court had given him upon Hermoine’s departure. “I love her…”

The light blue doors of Hermoine’s abandoned bedchambers glow like a holy beacon across the hall, and Severus practically leaps from where he’s desperately holding himself up against an angelic statue, his talon extended out towards the gilded handles. For a brief moment, he collapses into a wheezing lump of rotting black robes, feathers, and grease, but his determination to enter the chambers reignites the fire in his chest and pushes him back onto his feet.

The ghosts of bookish her smell filter out from the lightly dusted room and torture Severus’s senses as he hobbles inside, his breath escaping him in short, ragged, despairing gasps. The only thing to greet him is the weak fire that ignites in the lion-faced fireplace.

Surely conjured just to further mock him, a rather familiar dress appears on the once-bare mannequin: a cream-colored gown of silk adorned with golden pearls and lacing fashioned into the miniature images of galloping stags. It’s the gown he intended for Hermoine to wear her very first night at the castle. It was a gift intended to ease her sorrows and bring her comfort. Now it’s only a gift of mockery.

Past the great mullioned windows is a clouded sky painted the most dour shade of grey that’s bleakness drains all lively color from the surrounding forest and gardens. No fairies flutter from the wilting roses adorning the bedposts. In fact, some of their feathered corpses lie in between the masses of decaying petals and thorns.

But Severus pays no mind to the vampiric dreariness of the sky nor the dead fairies at his feet and instead runs a quivering talon across the bed’s fur bedspread, then allows his ugly hands to be kissed by the tender silk sheets and pillows still decorated by the telltale ginger hairs of a cat.

Tenderly, he brings the blanket to his cheek, holding it there firmly and deeply inhaling Hermoine’s lingering scent of books and pines that still haunts the furs. His talons curl into fists when he hugs it against his chest and sinks to the floor.

His eyes, weary, fall to the marble underneath him until he makes eye contact with his reflection. His hideous reflection. Thoughts of his face being the true reason why Hermoine desired to escape circulate through his mind and force a soft cry akin to a dog’s whimper past his lips.

“They look so different…” He muses, his tone shaking so violently that it nearly threatens to shatter into a sob.

_ What? I see no such difference! _

Slowly, he shakes his head as his body slumps against the bed frame. He ignores the sharpness of the thorns piercing through his cloak and into his skin. Small pools of blood beginning to form underneath his ragged cloak. “No, my eyes… they  _ are _ different… They’re different because… because I’m dying…” 

_ Only because you’re a fool, Severus Snape… _ The demonic voice hisses poisonous emphasis on every syllable of his cursed name, but he doesn’t care.

“If this is death,” Severus whispers into the blanket, his world becoming a darkening haze around him as the fire begins to whither into pitiful piles of embers. Within the thin wisps of smoke curling from the marble lion’s maw like smoke rising from a sleeping dragon, he can faintly see the outlines of Hermoine’s face; her regal, gently freckled face juxtaposing his own damned features. It makes him smile, weakly. “Then, I die longing for you, Hermoine…”


	15. Fourteen - Le Sort

_ Rather than coming across the dilapidated, frothing silver pool of distant memories on my own accord, I am violently thrown directly into a mirage of the Duke’s rose garden. Only, it doesn’t look like the Duke’s garden… it’s all decayed and grey, blanketed in a thin layering of early winter snow. _

_ The only color that attracts my eye is at the very center of the garden. It’s a single rose, desperately clinging to life, as its birch-like brambles grow from, much to my horror, the carcass of a doe. But not just any doe. When I notice the remaining tufts of red fur still glued onto the skeleton, which has adopted a sort of marble-like quality, I realize that this must be the carcass of the Duchess, trapped in her magical hind form. The Duke’s golden arrow remains anchored between the ribs and shoulder blade where her heart ought to be. _

_ The snow makes no sound nor is left marred by feet as I approach the calcified corpse and run my shaking hands across the ribs that have been laced with thorned roots. The rose bush is nowhere near as massive as I’ve grown to know it--far from, in fact--but the single rose blooming within the hideous mass of tangled brambles glows an ethereal light that soon dies, but then returns like a ghostly heartbeat. _

The Duchess’s heart? _ I think to myself, and then withhold a small gasp when a series of boots and high-stacked shoes crunching the snow echoes throughout the garden; they’re fast-approaching. I turn and see the Duke followed by his court--the scarred wolf man and his pink-wigged wife, the laid-back, ragged dog man, the stern-faced cat woman, and even the ginger-haired army of servants--all dressed in black, forming what seems to be their own funeral procession. _

_ The Duke’s face is worn by several day’s of scruff and lack of rest, the sallow skin underneath his red eyes a slight pink hue. He collapses before the corpse of his late bride--or rather, his trophy wife?--with a dead thump, his hunting coat and breeches becoming engulfed in black as his cloak spills across the snow-covered ground. _

_ A slow, shallow breath escapes his body as he runs a--gloved--hand across the carcass’s rotted, thorn-covered torso. _

_ Oddly enough, the rest of his court seems more bereaved at the loss of their beloved Duchess--the loss of  _ human life _ \--than the Duke, who only seems to be mourning the loss of a potential heir. _

_ The silence brought upon by the dreary winter atmosphere is made all the more heavier by the light snowfall, almost to the point where it’s deafening, as the Duke’s hardened stare glares upon the calcified corpse and the budding rose it houses. _

_ “Ssseveruss Sssnape…” A whispering hiss then floats from somewhere between the falling snow and descends upon the court, startling them all and making them all look every which way for the voice’s source. The Duke’s already pale faces whitens even further upon the whispering of his own name. _

_ Through the fogged snow, a great, tall figure begins to emerge, soon then revealing to be a cloaked figure atop a great stag as they begin to approach the Duke and the rotted doe. _

_ The court yelps in fright and all cling to each other, some even beginning to run back towards the castle with hysteric gaits. The Duke, however, remains in his spot, as the cloaked figure’s crimson-red eyes are set firmly upon him and only him. _

_ He staggers until he trips backward into the snow, only to continue his desperate, scrambling escape as the stag rears onto its hind legs and gives a great, bellowing scream. A familiar hatred burns in its deep brown eyes, which, too, are fixated solely upon the Duke. _

_ “Ssseveruss Sssnape…” The voice hisses again, the cloak’s hood lowering just enough to reveal a snow-white, red-eyed, noseless face of a creature caught between the worlds of man and serpent. His lips curl into a sickening grin, showing a mouth of pointed teeth as he runs a skeletal hand up and down the stag’s thick, black neck. “I have heard rumorsss from dear Monsssieur Potter, here, that you,” he then gestures to the rose growing from the doe’s body, “ssslaughtered hisss bride-to-be without merc’ssy…” _

_ A sudden flash of anger crosses the Duke’s once-cowardly features as he glares up at the figure atop the stag. “ _ What _?!” He growls boldly. “She was  _ my _ wife!  _ HE _ ,” he crudely points to the stag, who returns such anger with a hateful snort, “stole  _ her _ from  _ me _!” _

_ “SSSILENC’SSE!” The figure snarls, fear forcing the Duke to revert back to the groveling coward he had been moments prior. Mere seconds later, his voice returns to it’s sickeningly sultry hiss, “You sssee, Monsssieur Potter came to me sssome odd weeksss ago, pleading I give him a ssspell ssso he can free himssself and hisss beloved from a c’ssertain beastly Duke, ssso that they could live in peac’sse and raissse their child in the sssafety of  _ my _ foressst…” _

_ My mind reels back to the night of the Duchess and the Gardener embracing underneath the Duke’s balcony, then to the mysterious berries the Gardener had procured from a pouch just moments before they had assumed the harmonious forms of stag and hind. This figure--this serpentine thing--must be where such magic had come from! _

_ “Jussst yesssterday, Monsssieur Potter had returned to me with one final requessst…” The noseless man spreads his serpentine lips into a another macabre grin and a bright red, forked tongue flickers out to tickle the falling snowflakes. Then, slowly and with daunting grace, he points an accusatory claw at the quivering Duke. “To punish you!” _

_ The Duke’s hazel-and-golden eyes widen and his face pinches with fear as he scrambles back in the snow, his breath rising from his lips in spurts of grey, frantic mist. “P-Punish?” He whimpers, swallowing hard. He looks over his shoulder, his eyes pleading for any sort of rescue, but the blatant fear etched into his face exaggerates when he sees that his court is in one chaotic mass of black hurrying back to the castle with a maddening pace. _

_ Sliding off the stag, running his claws across the creature’s black mane and majestic antlers, and gliding across the snow in one smooth, slithering movement, the figure approaches the Duke, rising a frightened yelp out of the man, and extends a single talon towards him. “Ssseverusss Sssnape… may your bessstial nature be out asss it isss within…” _

_ A sudden scream of pain tears through the air as the Duke’s form begins to malform. Midnight black talons tear through gloves, seams of his coat strain as his back hunches and limbs elongate, and a strangled cough cuts through the scream as leonine teeth replace human ones. _

_ In the distance, towards the castle, a horrendous choir of tortured screams devolve into the squawks of a myriad of animals as the court’s bodies begin to twist into various feathered, furred, and scaled creatures. Some animals immediately escape into the forest, away from such madness, while others are left in a frightened stupor among the mountains of tattered gowns, frock coats, breeches, and shawls. _

_ With a snarl, the Duke--now having adopted the Beast’s cursed figure--stares up at the figure with sudden, feral hatred while his golden-brown hair and eyes darken into deadened, soulless, greasy shades of black. _

_ The figure chuckles and gracefully steps back as his newborn monster ambles towards him, a mess of slashing talons, gnashing teeth, and torn clothing. He mounts his black steed with another laugh, “Only one willing to love and marry you of  _ their own free will _ can sssave you--and your beloved court--from your damnation, Ssseverusss Sssnape!” _

_ With another despairing roar, the Beast lunges forward, falling onto all fours as he tries to pursue after the cackling figure galloping away upon the black stag. _

_ The Beast collapses into a pool of black when he stumbles over a torn piece of his cloak, and releases a despairing, bestial wail into the winter air, mingling with the echoing, evil laughter of the hooded warlock and the hopeless cries of his cursed court. _

#

The moment my eyes snap awake, I bolt into an upright position with a harsh gasp, startling Papa awake as well.

“Hermoine? Whatever’s the matter?” His question is groggy as he reaches to light the candle on the nightstand between our beds as the cottage remains bathed in darkness.

I only continue to stare straight ahead into a dark void filled with the lingering remnants of my dream. The haunting images of the crimson-eyed warlock and the Duke’s grizzly transformation rise another shaking breath out of my lungs.

The Beast’s hideousness that I’ve grown to love has been a punishment… and my love for such ugliness could set him free! My heart begins to thrum wildly against my rib cage, and the corners of my lips tickle with the urge to smile. What excites me is not the fact that my affections would be awarded by a handsome face, but rather the fact that the Beast can finally find some sort of peace with his curse being broken.

“I-I must return to the Beast!” I cry, almost laughing with elation, while throwing my blankets aside and onto my confused father. Crookshanks, suddenly comprehending my words, howls in shared excitement and bolts downstairs, only to begin an obsessive pacing before the door.

I don’t even bother dressing myself or brushing my hair, instead only retrieving a shawl for warmth, before I pursue after my feline companion.

“What?! Hermoine, no!” He cries after me, but I ignore him.

I take off across the yard after Crookshanks and, together, we mount the anxious mare in a single, unified movement.

“Hermoine!” Papa’s figure, still glad in his nightshirt, fills the patio as I spur the mare’s sides, causing her to leap proudly over the fence before pacing before the porch. Papa looks up at me with pleading eyes, but there is something that’s borderline comprehension deep within those pools of brown. “Hermoine…” He pleads.

I duck my head with a saddened purse of my lips. “Forgive me father,” and, with that, I whisper “Take me to the Beast.” into the mare’s ear, and we disappear into the creeping mist of early dawn.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, Voldemort is meant to be the "Enchantress" character.


	16. Fifteen - Le Baiser

Death.

Death is all that awaits me at the castle. Hedges are rotting corpses of the beautiful plants they once were, statues crumble underneath a mere glance, and roses wilt into ash upon the most faint breath of wind.

Whatever lively vigor that was instilled within the mare upon our departure immediately dissipates once we reach the castle’s front step, and is replaced by a more worried demeanor.

Comprehending her desire to search for her own companions, I waste no time in sliding off the saddle and starting up the steps with great haste. No magic opens the doors for me, forcing me to pry open the great, heavy oaken things on my own, nor does magic light any candles, bathing everything in a sickening shade of grey. The entrance room decays before me, thickly layered by black dust and cobwebs that masks every statue, chandelier, and portrait.

“Beast?” The dilapidated state I’ve returned to finally forces a pit to gnaw away in my gut.  _ I must be too late! No, I can’t be! _ Sprinting to the dining room, skirts bunched in my fist, I desperately cry out, “My Beast! Where are you? Speak to me!”

I can’t feel his presence anywhere in the castle. Not in his favorite chair in the library… not in the halls… not in the gardens littered with the corpses of his animal court being helplessly nudged by Crookshanks’s paws and the mare’s muzzle...

I kick and slap and burst through every possible door to every possible room, calling out for the Beast with determination until the hope sizzles away from my heart and my lips release a despairing, “Severus, speak to me! Please, where are you?”

Then, I come to my old chambers, slamming the door open and immediately releasing a bereaved scream with the scene that awaits me: the Beast in a crumpled heap upon my chamber floor with my fur bedspread clutched against his chest.

“Severus!” I wail and drop before the Beast’s slumped figure. “My dear Severus, answer me!”

A relieved gasp rushes from my lips when his eyes part, but only just enough for me to see the death has already consumed them.

“I… I thought you’ve forgotten… me…” he wheezes such harsh, quiet whispers filled with a tone of despair that pierces my heart.

“No! I could never forget you!” I cup his face in both my hands, tracing my thumbs along the small feathers underneath his eyes. Tears slither down my cheeks like burning snakes when his eyes only darken further. “I’m the monster for not having returned when I promised… But I’m here now! Everything will be fine! Come on,” I circle my arms around his midsection and try to lift him onto his feet. However, it’s useless; he’s dead weight and barely moves despite my best efforts. “Come on, you must get up!”

With a movement so minute that I would have missed it if tears blinded me further, the Beast shakes his head and lifts a claw, reaching up towards me with quivering talons. 

Eagerly, I take his talon and gratefully press them against my cheek. His skin is deathly cold and grows colder with every passing moment.

“Mademoiselle… look at me…” He croaks, and I swiftly obey, staring intently into those mirthless pools of black, and he looks into mine with the same, though dying, fervor. His talons suddenly tighten, his claws lacing through my hair while his thumb swipes my tears away with a tenderness that makes me release a strangled sob. A small smile then teases his lips, showing me his proud fangs for one final time. His lips part slightly, as if he is to say more, and I lean in, intent on listening to whatever is to be said.

However, he says nothing more. A cold, groaning sigh tickles my cheek as his hand releases and his eyes begin to stare at something beyond me.

“Severus?” I whimper and lightly shake him, only to have his head loll out of my palms and his claws fall away from my face and hit the floor with a sickeningly dull  _ clack _ . “Severus? Severus, please! Please don’t leave me!” Everything around me crumbles, darkens, then finally shatters as his cheek grows even colder underneath my fingertips.

“I love you…” I press a chaste series of kisses all along his cheeks and brow, and finally a prolonged one against his slightly parted lips. A harsh sob finally rattles through me as I collapse into his body, hugging it close and pressing my face into a chest colder than the most frostbitten stone. “If you can hear me, my answer is yes… I will marry you… just, please, wake up…”

But he doesn’t wake up. There isn’t even the faintest twitch that’d indicate any signs of life. 

I pray I shall die here, too. I pray that I will rot away within the walls of this castle as punishment for my cruelty. How could I have been so cruel to stay away from my friend for so long? How could I have been so cruel to have  _ killed _ my friend? My only friend…

“I-I love you…” I whimper again, though it sounds more like a child’s desperate plea.

Then, I hear it… the most faint thumping of a heartbeat… 

Then I feel it… the blossoming warmth of life coursing through long-dead veins...

A warm, living hand tentatively caresses my hair with a weak “Do not cry, mademoiselle… dry those tears...”

Gasping, I jerk back to look up into the Beast’s face and am met with the same hazel-golden eyes from my dreams, only now they are filled with an entrancing tenderness and love that makes me smile. These are no longer the eyes of the Beast.

The beastly features that had twisted his face before are now gone; his sneering mouth of pointed teeth are gentle lips turned into a loving, boyish grin; his sallow cheeks are featherless and no longer ghostly pale; his nose remains hooked, though not to the degree where it resembles a deformed beak; his hair remains midnight black and is soft, like the feathers of a raven’s wing. Regardless, his eyes retain the intelligent glimmer, his lips the soft smirk, and his voice the same baritone growl of the beast I’ve come to love.

Through the windows, newborn sunlight pours into the room, engulfing us in a sea of golden heat, bringing with it the revived scent of our beloved roses and cheered cries ringing out from the gardens as animal howls revert back into the triumphant shout of Severus’s court.

I smile, tracing my hands all along his reformed features and through his hair. “It’s you…”

His hand, his clawless, featherless, human hand, cups the entirety of my cheek as we bask in each others’ pure affection. “It’s me,” He breathes out with a soft chuckle before pulling my face towards his until our lips collide, sending electrifying heat coursing all through my body.

When we pull away, we realize that our surroundings and attire have changed without our noticing. We are now embracing each other within the revived hedges of the courtyard and underneath the crimson shade of the glowing roses.

Rather than his tattered robes of black, Severus is practically glowing in a coat and cloak of iridescent white. My nightgown and shawl have been replaced by the cream-and-gold wedding gown intended for me to wear my first night at the castle, and I’ve never felt so happy wearing a single dress. It just feels so right as I run my hands over the mane of lace ruffles adorning Severus’s throat, and he traces his own over my pearly bodice.

Surrounding us are the animals-turned humans, all smiling and clapping while wearing noble clothes the same shade of white as Severus’s. In their eyes, I can recognize Crookshank’s animal companions: the wolfish gleam in the brown eyes of the scarred man and his bold wife, the playful, canine glimmer in the ragged, wigless man, the intelligent feline glint in the stern-faced woman while she cradles Crookshanks against her chest, and the playful shimmer of the mare and hare within the eyes of the red-haired scullery maid linking arms with the eccentrically-dressed, white-blonde haired girl.

They don’t seem to be cheering in celebration of Severus’s and I’s love for each other, however, but rather the fact that a curse has been broken and they’re no longer trapped underneath the hides of beasts.

But I don’t care, as I cast a smile towards them, and finally towards my dear Severus before he blesses my lips with another deep kiss.

Against the coolness of my now-powdered cheek, Severus whispers, at last, “Will you marry me, mad--?”

I don’t even allow him to finish before silencing him with another kiss and whisper against his lips, “ _ Oui _ ,  _ ma Bête _ …”

As beast and beauty, beauty and beast, we lay within each other’s arms, allowing the world around us to fall away into a flurry of golden light, snow-white rose petals, a harmonious, buzzing choir of fairy wings humming a marital hymn, and an embracing, celebratory warmth…

I’ve heard of happily ever afters only in childrens’ fairy stories… Then again, it’s only in fairy stories that one encounters fairies that lust for rosebuds, enchanted castles of gold and marble, and beasts with the hearts of men, and men with the hearts of beasts, that can only be transformed by the powers of love…

And here, whilst I lie in Severus’s arms, ensnared within the white, silken wings of his cloak, and we only gaze deep into each other’s eyes, I realize that such happily afters do exist, and I have just found mine.

*~*Fin*~*

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Well... tis the end...
> 
> Thank you so much, everyone, for your reads, kudos and kind comments!!  
> I've never finished a story before, and I'm super sad to see my first ever fanfiction come to an end!  
> Thank you all for joining me on this journey, and I cannot wait to write more!!
> 
> ~Josephine <3


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